


Flesh Wounds

by Hovercraft79



Series: Mind the Gap [1]
Category: The Bletchley Circle
Genre: F/F, Holocaust, Homophobia, Nazis, Past Violence, alcohol use, anti-Semitism, descriptions of violence equivalent to the show, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hovercraft79/pseuds/Hovercraft79
Summary: A flesh wound. That’s what the Colonel had said. Nothing serious. Unfortunately, Jean’s body had other ideas. Struggling under the weight of the setback, Millie and Jean embark on a difficult journey of recovery and discovery.As they learn to navigate Jean’s new reality, they must face the changes it brings to their relationship – will their growing feelings survive the stresses it brings? When a man from Jean’s past brings new dangers, the threat of losing something they’ve only just found becomes all too real.
Relationships: Millie Harcourt/Jean McBrian
Series: Mind the Gap [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2150208
Comments: 25
Kudos: 25





	1. Unwelcome News

**Author's Note:**

> This story marks the first in what I hope to be a series, Mind the Gap, that fills in the blank spaces left in the canon. This story takes place in the month between Jean being shot and Alice Merren’s release from prison. 
> 
> The subject matter will cover some dark material. The Bletchley Circle is set in the post WWII world of Great Britain, and the fallout from the horrors of that war are still very real in the early 1950's. This story deals with some of the worst parts of that time, particularly the homophobia and anti-Semitism. Nothing is explicit - at least not any more than what you'd see on the show. I hope I've written it in a sensitive way. I've listed some of the sources I used at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> Special thanks to everyone who let me bounce ideas off them or gave me suggestions when I was stuck. You all rock.
> 
> As always, I owe a great debt to Sparky for her tireless efforts to edit and manage my wandering participles. I think she was kind of excited to read something that didn't involve gay witches.

* * *

“What do you mean Jean’s taken a turn?” Millie could feel her blood draining out of her body. Her eyes dropped to her feet; she expected to find herself standing in the middle of a growing sea of red. Instead, she found only green linoleum. The vision of Jean being shot flared in her memory, so powerful she could smell the gunpowder and the hot, coppery scent of the blood pouring through Lucy’s fingers as she tried to staunch its flow.

Suddenly, Nurse Millner’s tight-lipped smile and refusal to look her in the eye made sense. Every averted gaze, every sudden detour, every truncated greeting made sense. Familiar nurses, orderlies, even Mike the janitor… everyone had been uncharacteristically busy – intently focused on anything but her arrival.

Millie pushed past Dr. Bensonhurst and raced to the ward. Jean’s bed sat empty, the sheets clean and fresh like she’d never been there at all. Millie skidded to a stop, slipping on the polished floor. A firm hand gripped her elbow. “Where is she?”

“We moved her to a ward that provides elevated care.” The doctor pulled a forgotten carpetbag from Millie’s hand and led her back into the corridor.

“I don’t understand,” Millie murmured, her tear-filled eyes pleading with him. “I was meant to take her home today. A flesh wound – that’s what you said. It was only a flesh wound and she’d be right as rain in no time at all.” She pointed at the bag in his hand. “I brought her clothes…”

“She’s developed an infection – early sepsis, I’m afraid. We took her back into surgery to clean out the wound.” Dr. Bensonhurst guided Millie back to the waiting area. He eased her onto a battered divan and took a seat beside her. “We’re pumping her full of penicillin.” He smiled at her, his face wearing care and sympathy much like his body wore the white coat. “We think we got to it in time.”

“Sepsis… You think you got to it…” Millie tried to remember yesterday. Jean had been distracted, almost dazed at times. When Millie had teased her about it, Jean had waved it away, citing crushing boredom. One detail sprang forth in her mind. “She kept fanning herself, complaining about the heat. That was the fever, wasn’t it?”

“I expect so. Unfortunately, Miss McBrian failed to mention her discomfort to the nurse.”

“Of course, she didn’t,” Millie snorted, “she wanted to go home.” Her hands fumbled with her purse, reaching for a cigarette before she remembered that she was in hospital and it wasn’t allowed. “Jean and her bloody… stubborn… Scottish-ness!”

“She is stoic, that one.” He grunted, amused, before leaning back on the divan and crossing his arms over his chest. “I remember during the war we’d get lads in from the bombings. Some horribly injured, some with scarcely a mark on them. You could never predict how they’d react. You’d get a boy missing half his intestines and he’d hardly say a word, save to ask for a spot of tea. Then there were the other lads. I remember one; he hardly had more than a scratch – a glorified splinter, really. That boy howled like a fox with his leg in a trap.”

Millie grinned ruefully. “Jean’s not a howler, not by a long chalk.” Nervous energy pushed her to her feet; she couldn’t sit. Not when Jean was… somewhere… “You said Jean is in surgery?”

“Mr. Church is working on her now. He’s our best surgeon. It’s only to clean the wound, mind you. We want to make sure there isn’t any necrotic tissue that could be furthering the infection. We don’t want it to progress to full-blown septicemia.” He nodded briskly and stood up, adjusting his coat. “I’ll go check on Miss McBrian’s progress for you.”

Millie nodded, too focused on words like ‘necrotic’ and ‘septicemia’ to say anything. Hugging herself so hard it hurt to breathe, she stared out the front window into the parking lot and tried to find her footing. She needed to… she didn’t know what she needed, besides Jean to be safe and whole. And a cigarette. She desperately needed a cigarette.

Yanking the door open, Millie lurched down the stairs, dropping splay-legged onto the third step from the bottom, propriety be damned. She pulled out her cigarettes and stuck one between her lips. Her fingers shook so hard it took her three tries to light it.

She had no idea how long she sat there while the cold from the cement step seeped into her backside. By the time the nurse came out to fetch her, at least half a dozen crushed cigarette butts littered the step next to her.

“She’s out of surgery now, Miss Harcourt. Mr. Church said the operation went well. They should have her back on the floor in a few minutes.”

“Did he happen to say she’ll be right as rain again this time?” Mille spat, bitterness overwhelming her relief – but only for a moment.

“Not yet,” the nurse said, grinning. “Doctors do tend to blow hot or cold, don’t they? It’s either all gloom and doom or all sunshine and roses. Never in the middle. Your Miss McBrian is somewhere in the middle. I think she will wind up right as rain, but she’ll have a hell of a storm to get through first.” The nurse extended a hand to her, “Your friend needs you. She’ll be keen to see you when she wakes up from the anesthesia.”

Millie crushed out the remains of her cigarette and took the nurse’s hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Oh…” she said, wincing and rubbing her bum. “I’m getting too old for that.” As she followed the nurse inside, it occurred to Millie that she needed to tell the other girls what had happened.

Borrowing the phone at the nurse’s station, she called Susan and relayed what little she knew, thankful that her voice only shook a little bit. Gently replacing the phone in the cradle, Millie smiled grimly at the nurse. “She’ll let everyone else know… about Jean.” Steadying herself, she followed the woman – Nurse Medford, she remembered – down the corridor. Millie refused to look at Jean’s empty bed again, keeping her eyes forward as they passed. Nurse Medford led her down a new corridor. The clacking of Millie’s heels echoed in the hallway, each staccato beat ratcheting her anxiety higher. She tried not to stare at the equipment lining the hallway. Between the added equipment and oppressive silence, Millie could see at once that this wing catered to patients in dire straits.

Nurse Medford opened a door. Less than half the size of the ward Jean had been on before, this room had only five beds. She spotted Jean in the middle bed, pale and terribly, horribly still. Millie couldn’t believe how small she looked.

“Oh, Jean!” Millie clapped a hand over her mouth and raced to Jean’s bedside. She stopped short, afraid to touch her. An oxygen mask covered most of her face while an IV line snaked down the side of the bed and into her arm. A heavy strand of hair hung across her forehead, sticking to her eyelids and cheek. Knowing how Jean would hate having a hair out of place, even now, Millie carefully brushed it off her face. “There you go darling, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Jean’s lashes fluttered open and her eyes darted in a glazed panic around the unfamiliar room. Her arms began to flail weakly about, bringing Nurse Medford rushing to her side.

“I’m here, Jean. You’re safe.” Millie leaned forward so Jean could see her. “It’s going to be all right. It’s Millie and I’ll stay right here with you.” Jean’s eyes finally landed on Millie, widening with the unmistakable flash of recognition and relief. Millie grabbed the arm connected to the IV, sliding her hand into Jean’s and lacing their fingers together. “Easy, Jean. Be still now, darling. I’m here.” She lowered herself to her knees as Jean calmed. She feathered her fingertips through Jean’s hair. “You’re going to be just fine. I promise.”

Nurse Medford, syringe already in hand, nodded and took a step back. “I told you she’d want to see you.” She placed the glass syringe delicately on the tray near the bed. She checked the watch that hung from her uniform. “Unfortunately, visiting hours are over at four on this ward.”

Millie didn’t even bother to look up. “That’s as may be, but I shan’t be leaving.” Her voice was soft, but the determination in it wasn’t lost on the nurse. “You can try to make me, but you won’t win.”

Nurse Medford studied the woman currently kneeling next to her patient. Millie Harcourt had been here every day. She knew how much Miss McBrian looked forward to the red-head’s arrival. Sighing heavily, she went to fetch a chair from the other side of the room. “Lucky for you then that I’m pulling a double today – I’m also the night shift nurse.” She placed the chair next to Millie. “Check her for fever every now and again. Find me if she starts feeling warm. She’ll be coming off the oxygen soon, so I’ll be back ‘round again.”

Now Millie smiled up at her, grateful tears shining in her eyes. “Thank you.” Alone again with Jean, Millie tried to think of what to do, what to say. “I talked to Susan, let her know you’re feeling poorly. She’s heard from Alice’s solicitor. They’ve issued a stay of execution. The hanging has been postponed pending a review of the evidence the Colonel is providing.” _It was something at least_ , she thought, staring ruefully at Jean’s leg. At least Jean hadn’t been shot for nothing.

Since Jean’s hospitalization, Susan had taken over the job of keeping the solicitor abreast of the case. Once Masters had been taken into military custody, he’d crumbled under questioning, confessing to the murder, to implicating Lizzie, to everything. Colonel Tipton, a good man who had been truly horrified by what Masters had done, had taken it upon himself to contact the magistrates on Alice’s behalf. Ostensibly, he’d gotten involved to hasten Alice’s release, but no one overlooked the fact that his involvement kept the whole thing out of the newspapers as well. Keeping things quiet was as much a reason for transferring Jean to the military hospital as the promise of better treatment and therapy. Millie prayed he was right about the higher level of care.

Once Jean had drifted back to sleep, Millie gave in to her aching knees. She climbed into the chair and settled in for a long night’s vigil. Chilled, Millie looked for the nurse so she could ask for a blanket. Not wanting to leave, she decided she could make do until the nurse came back. She had just resigned herself to freezing when she spotted the carpetbag under Jean’s bed. She hadn’t even seen anyone bring it. She opened it and retrieved Jean’s woolen jumper. Wrapping herself in the thick weave of the cardigan, Millie caught a whiff of something sharp and sweet. She pulled the collar to her nose and breathed in the scent. Jean’s scent.

She recognized it at once. Yardley’s English Lavender. Steady and traditional, just like Jean. She closed her eyes and just… breathed.

The first fever spike hit a few hours later. Jean had been drifting in and out of wakefulness, but just after eight, she moaned and thrashed and squeezed Millie’s hand to the point of pain. Speaking in low soothing tones, Millie brushed her fingertips across Jean’s forehead. Her skin burned with fever. Millie called out for Nurse Medford, pressing herself against the wall while the nurse and the night doctor adjusted Jean’s IV, administered some aspirin and another dose of penicillin. The hypodermic had also been put to use this time, and now Jean was sleeping, fitfully, but sleeping. The rest of the night passed in alternating cycles of crawling boredom punctuated by bouts of raging panic. Nurse Medford brought Millie a bowl of ice water and a flannel, charging her with the duty of bathing Jean’s face and neck to keep her cool. The fact that Jean had never fully regained consciousness positively terrified Millie.

* * *

“Millie?” Lucy shook Millie’s shoulder, harder this time.

“Wha- Jean?” Millie jerked her head off the mattress with a start, wiping away the saliva that had collected in the corner of her mouth.

“Jean’s fine,” Lucy hurried to add. “Well, not fine, really, but… she’s resting comfortably at the moment.”

“Which is more than we can say for you,” said a voice from behind them.

Millie turned to see Susan standing just inside the doorway. “It’s been a long night.” She gazed at Jean’s sleeping form. “She’s fighting though. You know Jean… tenacity should be her middle name.” Millie laid the back of her fingers against Jean’s forehead. It felt cool – for now.

Lucy perched on the edge of Jean’s mattress, careful not to jostle her injured leg. “How did this happen?”

Stifling a yawn, Millie shrugged and pulled Jean’s cardigan tighter. “It just does sometimes. They think they caught it early, though.” She didn’t mention the worried looks shared between Nurse Medford and the doctor each time Jean’s fever climbed above one hundred and three. She swallowed another yawn. “I don’t suppose either of you smuggled in a pot of coffee?”

“I’m afraid not,” Susan said, pulling another chair from across the room. She planted herself at the foot of Jean’s bed.

“Why don’t you let me get you a chair, Lucy? It’ll give me a chance to stretch.” Millie pushed herself to her feet, wincing as the bones of her spine creaked and cracked their way back into place.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I won’t be needing it.”

“Oh?” Millie frowned. “Are you not staying long?”

Lucy grinned. “No. It’s you who aren’t staying. We’re here to take the day shift while you go home and get some sleep.”

Shaking her head, Millie dropped back into her chair. “I can’t. Jean needs me.”

“Of course, she does,” Lucy said, “but you won’t do her any good by running yourself ragged. Go home, Millie, and get some sleep. We’ll see to Jean. Once you’ve sorted yourself out, you can come back for the night shift.”

“It’s the only sensible thing to do.” Susan stood up, waiting expectantly for Millie to follow her.

Millie stared back, the stubborn set to her jaw making it clear she wouldn’t leave without a fight. How could she explain to them that she needed to be here with Jean? She couldn’t even quite explain it to herself. How could she explain the horrifying images that crept into her dreams each time she fell asleep? Images that only receded when she woke to find Jean sleeping soundly.

The last had been the worst. Instead of sleeping in a hospital bed, Jean had been sleeping in a coffin. Her hair had been fanned out across the white satin lining. The coffin itself had been cast from iron, much like the hospital bed. Rather than a funeral parlor, they had been deep underground, in a cellar. Malcolm Crowley had been pushing the coffin towards an incinerator. This time, when Millie tried to shoot him, she’d shot Jean instead. Her screams had brought Nurse Medford in a dead run.

“I understand that you don’t want to leave. But what will Jean say when she finds out you aren’t taking care of yourself.” Susan pursed her lips, waiting for Millie to see sense. “She will find out, you know.”

Millie rolled her eyes. “You always were a tattle-tale,” she huffed.

“Come on, then. I’ll give you a lift. I have an appointment with Alice’s solicitor to provide testimony. He’s moving to have her case dismissed. If you go home and get some sleep—”

“And perhaps a bath…” Lucy interrupted.

“And perhaps a bath,” Susan agreed, “I’ll bring you back when I come to relieve Lucy.”

Millie studied Jean for a long moment. She did seem to be resting more comfortably. “You have to keep checking her for fever…” Lucy nodded while Millie demonstrated by pressing the back of her fingers to Jean’s forehead and cheeks. “If she feels warm—”

“Use the ice water. I’ll look after her, Mil. Really.” Lucy picked up the bowl and flannel, determined to do her part.

Aware that she was being effectively double-teamed, Millie decided to cede the field of battle. Rising to her feet again, she leaned over until she could whisper in Jean’s ear. “I’ll be back, darling. I promise. I expect you to behave yourself while I’m gone.” Ignoring the other two women, Mille leaned over even further, pressing a quick buss to the top of Jean’s head. “Let’s go then,” she said, straightening to her full height. “I don’t want to be gone too long.” Gathering her coat and purse, Millie followed Susan out the door, throwing one last look over her shoulder as she left.

For the next two days Susan arrived at ten in the morning, at first cajoling and then commanding Millie to borrow her car long enough to go back to her flat to sleep and bathe. Lucy came after work when she could. Jean slept through it all, the quiet of the ward broken only by Jean’s moans and restlessness, though she never came fully awake. Nurse Medford tried to reassure, but she couldn’t hide the worry in her eyes.

On the third day, Millie returned to find a grim-faced Susan and an empty bed.

“What’s happened?” Millie dropped her belongings to the floor. “Where’s Jean?” Millie turned to Susan in a panic. “Susan, tell me what’s happened!”

“Her fever spiked again. They’ve taken her into a treatment room for an ice bath.” She bent down to pick up Millie’s things, putting off the worst of it while she could. “She woke for a moment, when they were transferring her.” Susan’s lips twitched into a nervous smile that vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. “She asked for you.”

“Nooo…” Millie staggered back, gut-punched by the news. “I never should have gone.”

Susan guided her to sit on Jean’s bed, taking a seat in the chair next to it. “It’s good news, though, isn’t it?”

“How is it good? She’ll think I’m not here. After all she’s done for me…” Millie slumped forward, burying her head in her hands.

“She woke up, Millie. She woke up clear-headed enough to ask about you. It is good news.”

Millie looked up at her, eyes wide and bleeding hopefulness. “It is, isn’t it?” She grabbed Susan’s hands. “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

“Of course, she is. I can’t imagine anything else.”

They both started as Jean was wheeled back into the room. Millie leapt off the mattress as the orderlies moved to transfer Jean back into the bed. Careful to stay out of the way, Millie watched as Nurse Medford expertly reattached Jean’s IV line. “How is she?” Millie asked once the nurse had finished.

“Better, actually.” The nurse motioned for them to move away from the bed. Millie reluctantly followed her to the doorway. “Her fever broke quickly, and the wound is healing well. She responded to questions and asked after you—” her eyes cut quickly to Susan, “—all of you.” Chuckling softly, she lowered her voice so no one else could hear them. “She gave Dr. Bensonhurst what-for when he dropped her into the ice bath. Called him a bloody gommy dobber and sloshed water all over him. That’s when he decided she needed to be sedated.”

The giggles started slowly – tiny sounds that were barely more than a hum. But like a snowball rolling downhill, they grew until Millie and Susan were laughing so hard, they had to retreat to the hallway so as not to disturb the other patients.

“God…” Millie gushed, trying to catch her breath, “I needed that.” She wiped the tears from her eyes, trying not to smear her mascara all over her face. “That’s our Jean.”

After a few more minutes spent collecting themselves, Susan gathered her belongings. “Same time tomorrow, then?”

“If you’d like.” Millie squared her shoulders. “I won’t be leaving, though. I’m not going to have Jean wake up asking about me whilst I’m off somewhere asleep.” She’d expected Susan to argue with her, so it caught her off-balance when Susan merely nodded and squeezed her elbow.

“I’ll ring Lucy and we’ll put an overnight bag together for you.”

“Thank you.” Millie forced herself to walk with Susan to the hospital entrance. As soon as Susan turned the engine, Millie hurried back to Jean’s side, her low heels clacking across the linoleum floor.

Back on the ward, she settled into her bedside vigil, smoothing the hair from Jean’s face. “It’s going to be all right, Jean.” She continued to brush her fingers through Jean’s hair. “The nurse said you’re doing better.”

“Same nurse… that… tried to give me… bloody hypothermia?” Jean murmured, her half-lidded eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Choking back a sob, Millie laced her fingers with Jean’s. “The very one, darling.”

Jean’s eyes slowly swiveled around until they found Millie’s. “You look like shite.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Glad you’re here anyway…” Jean’s eyes drifted closed again.

“Me, too, Jean. Me, too.”

* * *

Dr. Bensonhurst snapped the file closed. “I don’t see any reason for you to remain in hospital, Miss McBrian. I’d say you’re more than ready to move to a convalescent home to—”

“Wait!” Jean held up a hand, visibly deflating. “A convalescent home? Not my own home?” She looked at Millie, her lips pressed together to stop their trembling.

Millie knew the doctor meant for his smile to be kindly, rather than patronizing, but he didn’t quite pull it off. “You’re a single woman, Miss McBrian,” he said, as if that were somehow news to her. “You have to be able to care for yourself before you could possibly go home.”

“What kind of care does she need?” Millie shot Jean an encouraging smile. “The IV’s are gone, it’s been over forty-eight hours since she’s had a fever, she’s still taking penicillin, but that’s a pill every few hours.”

“The infection took a lot out of her. She’s weak; her mobility is limited. Daily tasks like cooking, laundry, even bathing and dressing herself are going to be more than she can manage on her own until she rebuilds her stamina.”

“So… it’s not medical care she needs. She needs someone to help her at her flat. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, and such. Someone to nag her about doing her exercises.” She winked at Jean.

“In a nutshell,” the doctor agreed.

“ _She_ is right here, you know,” Jean muttered.

“That’s all sorted then. I’ll stay at Jean’s flat until she’s back on her feet.” Millie smiled her most charming smile at the doctor. “Will that work?”

Dr. Bensonhurst thought it over, before agreeing with a curt dip of his chin. “It sounds like a reasonable compromise. I’ll get the nurses to put together a packet of exercises.” Spinning on his heel, he left them to themselves.

“I thought it would be harder to get him to go for that.” Millie sounded almost disappointed. She turned to face Jean, who was staring at the door wringing her hands together. Millie realized the harder part might be getting Jean to agree.

Jean shook her head. “I can’t ask you to uproot yourself and cater to me for…” she trailed off. “I don’t even know how long I’ll be like this.”

Foregoing the chair, Millie took a seat on the side of the bed, careful not to jostle Jean’s leg. “My memory may not be in the same league as Lucy’s, but I don’t recall you asking.” She pulled Jean’s hand into her lap, inspecting the bruising left over from the IV needle. “You heard what the doctor said: cooking, cleaning, tending to your physical needs. You, Jean McBrian, are in need of a wife.” Smirking, she made an exaggerated scan of the ward. “For lack of any other candidates, I fear you may have to settle for me.”

“Hardly settling, dearie,” Jean said before flopping back on her pillow.

An hour later, Jean’s scant belongings had been packed into the carpetbag along with Millie’s things, Susan had been apprised of their imminent release and was on her way with the car, and Lucy had been dispatched to the market to make sure that Jean’s cupboards weren’t as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s.

All they were waiting for now was Dr. Bensonhurst, who’d been quite cryptic in his explanation of why they needed to wait for his return before they were dismissed.

Jean’s agitation level had reached critical heights by the time the doctor finally returned carrying some sort of metal contraption and sporting a proud grin. “Colonel Tipton insisted we spare no expense in your treatment. He said that you did the army a great service.”

Millie leaned over and muttered under her breath, “He doesn’t want you to spill the beans about who shot you, more like.” She straightened up, smiling broadly as the doctor placed the strange device in front of Jean.

Jean looked as though he’d just presented her with a week’s full cat box. “What is that?”

“It’s called a walking frame. It’s meant to assist patients who’ve suffered an illness or an injury that’s deprived them of the ability to walk freely. You’re exactly the type of patient it’s designed to help, and the Colonel insisted that you have use of one.”

Millie leaned over and examined it. Made of bent metal tubes, the front side was an inverted U-shape, a second piece attached to the first by means of spring hinges. The ends of both pieces formed four legs, the tips of which had been covered with rubber end caps. Handles had been affixed to the top of the cross bar. Millie reached out and gave it a push, surprised by how lightweight it was. “It’s quite clever, isn’t it, Jean?” When Jean didn’t answer, Millie glanced over to see her staring at the device with a mixture of horror and fear. _Oh, dear._ “How does it work?” she asked, for no other reason than to keep the doctor, who was clearly excited by the device, from noticing Jean’s reaction.

“It’s quite simple, really.” He stood up and positioned himself between the walking frame’s legs, hands gripping the handles. “Once the patient is on his feet – or her feet, as the case may be, he can support his weight with the frame while using it to maintain his balance.” He demonstrated it by walking slowly across the ward. “It’s a brilliant example of British invention!” He maneuvered back to the bed and deposited it in front of Jean. “Fellow named Robb invented it in Stretford back in ’49. It’s been a godsend for our wounded men. It’s quite the testament to you, Miss McBrian, that the Colonel saw fit to lend you one for your recovery.”

“That was generous of the Colonel, wasn’t it Jean?”

Jean forced a smile onto her lips, if not her eyes or voice. Now was not the time to be churlish. “Quite,” she managed.

If the doctor noticed anything amiss in Jean’s attitude, he didn’t let on. “Now, you’ll need crutches to begin with, of course, at least until you can put a reasonable amount of weight on your leg. Three or four days, I’d say. At that point, try to shift over to the walking frame. A few weeks with that, maybe less, and you’ll be able to switch to a cane.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” Millie did her best to sound encouraging. “How long do you expect Jean to need the cane?”

The doctor blinked in surprised puzzlement. “I imagine she’ll always need the cane to some degree. Perhaps not puttering about in the kitchen and such, but for outings and the like…” He smiled and shrugged. “You’re a lucky woman, Miss Mc Brian.” He cast one last, fond look at the walking frame before stepping away. “I’ll let the nurses know that you’re ready to be discharged as soon as your friend gets here with the car.”

Millie stared at Jean. Jean stared at the walking frame. “A lucky woman. I’d hate to see what he thinks is unlucky.”

“Don’t fret, darling. He has no idea that Jean McBrian is a force of nature. It will all turn out for the best. I’m sure of it.”

“Right as rain,” Jean scoffed.

* * *

The ride home was punishing. No matter how carefully she drove, Susan couldn’t avoid cobblestone streets or the stop and go of London’s traffic – even as they avoided the most congested areas. By the time they got her into her flat, Jean was pale and sweating, Millie needed a drink, and Susan felt quite certain that a lie down was in order. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said instead, once she’d helped lower Jean onto the sofa. Millie busied herself with putting away their coats and purses, allowing Jean a few moments to recover herself in private.

By the time the kettle whistled, Jean had fallen fast asleep. Susan raised the third teacup, glancing at Jean before turning back to Millie and lifting her brows in question. Millie shook her head. “Best to leave her be,” she said, sniffing the milk before pouring a splash into her tea. They sipped in silence, leaning against the kitchen counter. Millie positioned herself where she could keep an eye on Jean through the doorway. She tried to think of something to say, but for all her skill with languages, she just couldn’t find any words. What could she say, anyway? Susan was leaving, following Timothy to some foreign post, god knows where. No matter what form their relationship might take, it was always destined to be temporary.

After a few more moments of strained silence, Susan placed her cup on the counter and gave Millie one of her infuriating tight-lipped smiles. “Do you think she’ll sleep long enough for us to unload the car?”

Millie nodded, throwing back the last of her tea. Creeping into the sitting room, she pulled an afghan from the back of the sofa. She shook it out and gently covered Jean, careful not to disturb her. That done, she followed Susan into the hallway.

“I don’t mean to rush, you see, but Timothy and the children will be home soon.”

“Mmm…” Millie pulled the door to, but not quite closed. “And how’s that going, since the ‘big reveal?’” She knew Susan hadn’t been given a choice, but Millie couldn’t help being a bit peeved that she’d violated the Official Secrets Act when she told Timothy about their work at Bletchley and gotten away with it. Millie felt like Susan had been given a treat while the rest of them had been forced to go without. Worse, they’d had to watch her enjoy it. What would it feel like to be able to throw her war service in the face of her father? The man had made it clear that he considered her nothing more than a vapid spendthrift with no value beyond her marriageability.

Susan popped the boot and handed Millie her carpet bag. “Good, actually. We’ve always had this… cloud hanging over our marriage. Now it’s gone. It’s been such a relief not having to pretend anymore. He thinks I should get a teaching job once we get to his new post.”

“That’s something, I suppose.” She helped Susan wrestle the walking frame out of the boot. Jean had adamantly refused to use it, declaring that they may as well ‘tuck her into a pram and wheel her about like a bloody infant.’ Instead of arguing, they’d all but carried Jean up the walk, up the steps and into her flat. Millie eyed the walking frame appreciatively. “It really is clever, isn’t it?” It certainly seemed easier to manage than the crutches had been when Jean had tried those. Jean had a steep learning curve ahead of her with the crutches.

“I wish they’d had it back when Timothy was in hospital,” Susan said as she pulled the crutches out of the boot and closed it. “You’ll have to convince her to use it.”

“This is Jean we’re talking about, she’s sensible above all.”

“She’s stubborn above all,” Susan countered. “Are you sure you’re up to this? It won’t be easy. I had a whole team of nurses and therapists working with Timothy. Jean will be frustrated, in pain… afraid. Are you sure the convalescent facility wouldn’t be better for her?”

Folding her arms across her chest, Millie leaned against the back of the car. “You didn’t see her, Susan, it terrified her. As soon as the doctor said ‘convalescent home,’ she nearly panicked. Her brother died in one of those places, you know. During the war. Summer of ’44 as I recall.”

Susan frowned. “That can’t be right. We were all elbow to elbow in Hut 4 then. We’d have noticed if she’d gotten that type of news.”

“I was there when she got the telegram, getting my arse chewed for taking too many smoke breaks.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “It nearly broke her when she read it. I sat with her while she cried.” Later, Millie realized it had changed something between them. They’d been more of a team after, on the same side. “Half an hour later she went back on duty as though nothing had happened, and we’ve never spoken of it since. I remember that look in her eyes, though, the absolute defeat and despair. It’s the same look she had today, the moment the doctor said ‘convalescent home.’ I won’t be sending her there if I can help it.”

Susan studied her then, squinting against the late afternoon sun. Millie felt like nothing more than a pattern being analyzed. At last, she nodded. “I’ll help you when I can, it’s just that—”

“You’ve a big move to get ready for. I understand. Has Timothy been told where he’ll be posted yet?”

“Not yet.”

Millie didn’t reply; instead she hoisted the carpet bag over her shoulder and picked up the walking frame. She trudged up the walk, hoping she hadn’t made a critical error.

Back in the flat, Jean was still fast asleep on the sofa, snoring slightly thanks to the awkward angle of her head. As quietly as they could, they placed their load just inside the door. Susan whispered her goodbyes and took her leave.

The door clicked shut and suddenly Millie found herself alone. While she was loath to admit it, Susan’s warning had left her unsettled. Had she been too hasty when she’d offered to stay with Jean? She didn’t usually doubt her own capabilities, but this was Jean. Pushing her fears aside, Millie decided to focus on things that needed sorting now.

Taking the opportunity to explore Jean’s flat, she saw that little had changed since the last time she’d been here. After Crowley. In fact, the rooms hadn’t changed at all, really. Jean hadn’t either. But she had, she knew. And somehow, _they_ had.

_They’d spent hours talking to the police. She’d answered the same questions a dozen times, asked a dozen different ways. Even without Lucy’s eidetic memory, Millie had no trouble recounting every detail. Going for a cigarette and finding the gun missing, knowing instantly what Susan had done. Their desperate, panicked flight across London; her relief at finding Susan still alive, though in grave danger. When she’d spotted the gun on the floor, she hadn’t hesitated. She’d fired once, knocking Malcolm Crowley away. She hadn’t seen the tripwire for the grenade, not until it was too late. Not until Crowley’s hand was already falling towards it. She pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. She kept firing until Jean pulled her arm down. She’d rushed to Susan’s side, Jean hot on her heels, pulling a pin from her ever-present bun._

_It had been hours before the police finished with them. She’d been released without charges, a blessing she hadn’t realized she’d been praying for until it had been bestowed. Susan had rung Timothy. Unprepared to discover how involved his wife had truly been in chasing down a serial killer, he’d demanded she come home at once. One officer had been dispatched to escort Jean home, another to see Lucy and her back to their flat._

_She’d thought that would be the end of things, until she found herself chain smoking at her kitchen table at three o’clock in the morning, fighting the jittery energy that surged though her bones with shot after shot of cheap whisky. She hadn’t been able to close her eyes without seeing Crowley, jerking backwards as each bullet slammed into his body, the bloom of crimson staining his white shirt._

_She’d nearly jumped out of her skin when Jean had opened her door. She’d taken one look at the over-flowing ashtray and Millie’s red-rimmed eyes and bundled her up in her coat, still in her pyjamas. Scrawling a quick note for the sleeping Lucy, Jean had emptied the ashtray into the bin and pulled Millie into the night. “I can’t imagine what’s wrong with me,” she’d finally admitted. “It all turned out in the end. I don’t know why I can’t… settle.”_

_Jean had threaded her arm through Millie’s and guided her up the steps to her flat. “You took a life today, Millie. It doesn’t matter how evil that life, or how much he deserved to lose it – and he did, make no mistake. It’s still a grave thing to take a life – a thing you’ll have to reckon with.” Jean had let her into her flat and made her a cup of tea. She’d listened to Millie ramble about anything and nothing. By the time the sun started to peek above the horizon, Millie had been feeling much more herself – and she’d been grateful to Jean, who’d tucked her in to sleep on the very same sofa where Jean was napping now._

Shaking her head to clear away the memories, Millie pulled herself back into the present. Jean’s flat. Which likely needed things tended, and tending was something she could do. She quietly moved her bag to Jean’s bedroom, leaned the crutches against the arm of the sofa where Jean could easily reach them, and placed the walking frame near the door to the hallway. She scanned the sitting room, smiling at how much it reminded her of Jean. She hadn’t been of a mind to notice much the last time, but now… Organized, to be sure. Neat rows of books lined shelves, interspersed with personal mementos. Millie spotted a wooden number four on one shelf. Hut 4, where they’d spent years breaking German codes. Pragmatic, no-nonsense Jean had stolen the bloody number off the building before she’d left.

Sturdy, but comfortable furniture filled the space, upholstered in muted colors. All of it decidedly old-fashioned, but too classic to be considered out of date. She huffed a small laugh as she realized that Jean’s sitting room was the home furnishings equivalent of Jean’s ever-present cardigans and tweed. Not exciting at first glance, but on closer inspection one discovered something finely crafted but still overwhelmingly, undeniably home.

Millie blew out a stale breath and tried to focus on the matters at hand. Tending the flat. She eyed Jean’s icebox warily. A relic of the 1930’s, it still gleamed. On the outside. Millie shuddered to think what might be happening on the inside after a week of Jean’s absence. Opening the door, she was relieved to find that someone, likely Lucy, had already cleaned out any spoiled food. She checked the remaining ice. It needed restocking. She’d have to ask Jean when her next delivery was scheduled – or make arrangements to fetch more ice herself. The drip pan needed emptying. She noticed a watering can next to the ice box and guessed that Jean, ever resourceful, used the meltwater on her plants.

Once she’d filled the can, she crept out onto the tiny patio off the living room. “Oh, dear…” she muttered. Jean would not be pleased with the state of her plants. Obviously, they hadn’t been watered the entire time Jean had been in hospital. Millie tried to remember if it had rained any time in the last week. She didn’t think so. She emptied the watering can, then refilled and emptied it two more times before she’d managed to soak all of Jean’s plants. She picked a few ripe tomatoes and carried them inside, crossing her fingers that the rest of the garden would recover.

She checked on Jean again, wincing at the uncomfortable position the woman had drooped into. Millie needed to wake Jean up and move her to bed, but her back still twinged from getting her into the flat. Maybe a cigarette first.


	2. Dark Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean struggles to cope with the loss of her independence. Despite her best efforts, Millie feels like she's failing her. Desperate to be what Jean needs, Millie finds help from an unexpected source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the subject matter will cover some dark material, though nothing is any more explicit than what you'd find on the show. It does deal with Nazis and the horrible things they did. Please don't read it if you think it might upset or trigger you. I've done my best to handle this material in a sensitive way. 
> 
> Also, someone in this fandom wrote a spectacular story that listed Jean's brother as Robert. I'm sure this is why he is so firmly entrenched in my mind as Robbie. Thank you, dear author for the inspiration. As soon as I find the fic again, I'll give you the proper credit - or please let me know it was you! I hope you don't mind that I agreed that you are right, her brother is surely a Robert. And when he makes an appearance, the other brother will be an Archie, I think.
> 
> Once again, I want to thank Sparky for all the hard work she puts into these fics.

* * *

Voices down the street pressed him further into the shadows. It had been three nights without sight of his quarry. Three nights spent lurking in a dank alley that stank of cabbage and piss. Surely his luck would change soon. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted ahead of the voices, reaching him long before the men reached his hiding spot in the alley. His own need for a smoke burned in his lungs; he had to stifle the urge to cough.

He listened to the voices. Hushed in the darkness, the words were impossible to understand but the language sounded low and guttural. He straightened in anticipation, his muscles taut, ears straining to identify the voices that were slowly getting louder.

At last, the men moved into view, stopping under the greenish-yellow light of the streetlamp. He held his breath, coiled in the darkness as he tried to catch a glimpse of a face. Then it happened. One of the men took a long, last drag of his cigarette and turned to flick the remains into the alley. As the glowing butt bounced and scattered sparks at his feet, he caught a clear look at the man’s face. The frisson of recognition rocked his body. He’d found them. He’d found him.

One of the men made a joke, he couldn’t tell which one, but two hearty guffaws split the night. He remembered that laugh; he’d heard it often enough during the war. And in his dreams. With a clarity born of certitude, he knew it was time to make contact.

He stuffed one hand in his pocket and strolled out of the alley, his body forced into an artificial casualness. “Good evenin’ gents.” He tipped his hat before fumbling through his jacket pockets and pretending not to find a cigarette. “Could either of you blokes spare a smoke?”

The taller blond man grunted in the negative. The shorter man, the one he recognized, pulled a battered pack of Woodbines from his jacket pocket, and offered him one.

“Thanks, mate. I lost my last smoke playing snooker.” He pulled out his lighter and lit it up, making sure they could see the enameled medallion affixed to its side.

“Sounds like it’s not your game. Mate.” The shorter man eyed him in challenge.

“Every man has an off night now and again.” He lifted his chin. “I’d match my game against any bloke out there.”

“Bold words.” The short man brandished his pack of cigarettes between them. “Care to make a little wager?” he asked, nodding towards the lighter. “There’s a pub two streets over.”

“I know it,” he said, tamping down the elation in his chest. “Good place. Right sort of people.” He took another drag on the cigarette. The first part of his plan was clicking into place, thanks to some patience and a thrift-store lighter. “No time like the present, eh?” He stuck his hand out. “Sammy.”

“August.”

* * *

Millie shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position on the too short sofa. She contemplated pouring herself a tumbler of Jean’s whisky to help her relax but ultimately didn’t want to risk overdoing. It had taken everything in her to get Jean to bed. The stubborn woman had refused to use the walker, insisting on using the crutches instead. It was a debacle. It had taken nearly twenty minutes to get her into the loo – and nearly that long to convince her that Millie would have to help her off the toilet if she didn’t want to spend the night there. Finally – finally! – she’d consented to using the walking frame as leverage to get to her feet. She’d been angry, frustrated, and embarrassed. Millie had only made things worse by making a fuss.

Once she’d managed to get Jean into bed, Millie had made them both some tea, adding more than a nip of whisky to Jean’s cup. At the first sip, Jean’s eyebrows had lifted in surprise. She’d finished it without comment, though, and had been snoring softly before Millie had even finished half of hers. Carefully, Millie had removed Jean’s spectacles and placed them on the night table before trudging back into the sitting room and fixing a pallet of sorts on the sofa. Susan’s words kept repeating in her head.

Now, hours later, Millie still couldn’t sleep. She could still hear Susan’s voice asking, ‘are you sure you’re up to it?’ Meanwhile, every little rattle and creak set her heart to pounding, worried something was wrong with Jean. She rolled onto her stomach and shoved her head under the pillow. At some point, she must have drifted off.

Millie’s eyes snapped open. For a few disorienting seconds she didn’t remember where she was. Then she remembered: Jean’s flat. Something had woken her, but… she couldn’t hear anything. Wait, now she heard it, a low moan coming from Jean’s bedroom.

Rolling over, she misjudged the width of the sofa, landing on her arse on the floor. Ignoring the jolt to her hip, Millie scrambled to her feet and rushed into the bedroom. She found Jean sprawled on the rug, one of her crutches tangled in the hem of her nightgown. Jean was crying in pain and frustration.

“Jean!” Millie dropped to her knees beside her, helping Jean to sit up, ignoring the woman’s efforts to push her away. A growing wetness stained the pale cotton of Jean’s gown. Millie’s heart sank. She’d needed the toilet. Millie cursed herself for even thinking about trying to sleep on their first night in the flat. “Stop it! Jean! Let me help you…” She moved so she could sit behind Jean, propping her up much like she did when Jean was shot. Eventually, Jean stopped fighting and collapsed against Millie’s chest. “There you go, darling… you’re all right.”

“I’m not all right,” Jean snapped, roughly rubbing the tears out of her eyes. “I’ve bloody well pissed myself.” She tried to push away again but Millie didn’t let her go.

“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s my fault, Jean. You got tangled in your gown because I wasn’t in here to help you.” She adjusted her position, pulling Jean more firmly against her. She pressed a quick kiss to the top of Jean’s head before she could think better of it. “How is your leg?”

“Wet.” Jean frowned, the quick kiss stirring up something familiar in her memory. “It’s not your fault,” she admitted.

“It most certainly is.”

“It’s not. You aren’t my minder. I could have shouted for help, but I was too stupid and proud.”

“Jean McBrian. Do you honestly think that I could have known you all these years and not know that you would rather fall on your arse than ask me for help? I should have been in here.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, until the throbbing in Jean’s leg subsided and the wetness of her nightgown passed the point of tolerance. “I wouldn’t.”

“Hmm?”

“I wouldn’t rather fall than ask you for help. I should have asked.” She gave her eyes one last wipe. “I just…” Her voice trailed away.

“You’re going to be whole again, Jean. Perhaps not right away, but you will.” Millie hugged Jean a bit tighter before letting go. “Now, let’s get you sorted and then maybe we can both get some sleep.” She climbed to her feet, leaving Jean on the floor, and sweeping out of the room.

Jean sat, scowling at the traitorous crutches. “Does she mean for me to get off the floor myself?” she asked no one in particular. She could hear Millie bustling about in the bathroom, then the sound of water running. The bath. Out of the corner of her eye, Jean saw Millie sweep past the bedroom door. She returned a moment later with the walking frame, wearing a determined expression.

“I’m sorry, but like it or not, we’re going to have to use the walking frame.” Jean opened her mouth to argue, but Millie cut her off. “You’re a menace with the bloody crutches, Jean, and I can’t carry you. So…” She tapped the feet of the walking frame against the floor. “Needs must.”

Jean’s face twisted in distaste, but, reluctantly, she nodded. “Needs must.”

Millie moved behind her, gripping Jean under her arms and planting her feet on either side of Jean’s hips. “On three…” Jean nodded. “One… two… three…” She hauled Jean to her feet, both of them grunting – Jean’s morphing into a groan as she leaned heavily against the walking frame.

“Bloody hell,” Jean gasped. Her nose wrinkled at the wet stickiness of her gown.

Millie steadied Jean with a hand on her waist, giving her time to catch her breath. “Good girl…” She tried to keep her voice even, ignoring the twinge of pain in her lower back. “Let’s get you into the bath.”

“I’m not meant to submerge it until Thursday.” The disappointment in Jean’s voice was unmistakable.

“It’s after midnight, darling. Technically, it is Thursday.” Slowly, and oh, so carefully, they made their way down the hall. Jean managed much better with the walking frame, but Millie wisely kept her opinions on that to herself.

By the time they reached the bathroom, the tub was almost overfull. Millie shut the water off and found a fascinating hairpin to study while Jean stripped out of her gown and knickers.

“You may as well turn around; I don’t know how best to get in.”

The shame in Jean’s voice tore at Millie’s heart. She turned to find Jean trying to cover herself with her gown, all her weight on her good leg, holding onto the walker to keep her balance. She reminded Millie of nothing else so much as the painting of Venus on the half-shell. “We’ll manage. Keep your gown up,” she winked and grinned. “We need to protect a girl’s modesty.”

“That ship’s about to set sail, I think.” Jean glanced down at herself, then at anything else in the room except Millie. She wobbled a bit as her good leg started to tire.

Millie sighed. She’d meant the comment as a joke. Something to lighten Jean’s mood. If anything, it made matters worse. She helped Jean sit on the side of the tub, holding her steady as she lifted her good leg into the water, and then helping her lift the bad leg over the edge. Millie took the gown as Jean lowered herself into the tub with a sigh. Millie tried not to stare at the angry red scar from the gunshot, but she couldn’t keep her eyes away. She needed to get out of there soon, before she gave into the urge to touch it. “I’ll fetch you some new clothes. Call me when you’re done.”

With that, Millie left Jean to her own devices, praying that the stubborn woman would actually call her. Again, Susan’s doubts wormed their way into her mind, and she feared Susan might be right. Back in Jean’s room, Millie rifled through the cupboard, searching for more appropriate pyjamas. She eventually settled on a blue cotton gown that looked like it would fall just below Jean’s knees. Perfect. She wasn’t likely to get tangled up in that. She snatched a fresh pair of knickers from a drawer before taking another opportunity to study Jean’s place. She knew the flat was Jean’s own, but that most of the furniture had belonged to her brother Robbie. A member of the Glasgow Highlanders, he’d fallen in Operation Epsom outside of Cheux, though it had taken him the better part of a month to die. Jean had inherited most of his belongings. She could still see his influence in the things Jean hadn’t been able to part with: a well-worn cricket bat, a stuffed bear with most of its fur loved away, a stack of letters. An entire lifetime reduced to some furnishings and a few mementos. Scolding herself for getting maudlin about a man she’d never even met, Millie closed the cupboard and headed out to wait for Jean.

Back in the living room at last, Millie’s exhaustion returned with a vengeance. They’d argued about the best way to get Jean out of the tub – which had devolved into a complete fiasco, thank you very much. Never in her life had Millie expected to see so _much_ of Jean. Then they’d argued about the nightdress and whether or not Jean should take another pain pill. God knows how long the whole thing had taken.

As if on cue, the clock struck four a.m. “At least I don’t have to get up for work,” she muttered. She’d have to do something about that soon – not that she could work and see to Jean. _Just as well that she got sacked_ , she thought. Taking care of Jean was going to be a full-time job.

Millie expected to fall asleep as soon as she dropped onto the sofa. She didn’t. No matter how much her dry, burning eyes wanted to close, they popped open with every little noise. The creak of the building settling, the clatter of a tree branch against the bricks, the rumble of a passing lorry… each noise set her nerves to jangling.

After the third time she’d gotten up to check on Jean, only to find her sleeping heavily, thanks to the pain pills, Millie gave up any hope of getting any real sleep. She pulled the blanket off the sofa and dragged it into Jean’s bedroom, settling herself in the comfortable wingback chair near the bedroom window. Millie knew Jean would have a conniption if she woke up to find her hovering like this, but with the chair in front of the window, Millie felt certain that if she did fall asleep, either the morning sunlight or morning traffic would wake her in time to get out before she got caught.

“You have to eat something, darling. The doctor said it isn’t good to take the pain pills on an empty stomach.” She offered the plate again. It was a perfectly acceptable grilled cheese sandwich – certainly the better of her two attempts.

“Did I say I wanted another pill? I’ll not have you turning me into some sort of drug fiend just because it makes me easier to manage.” She waved the plate away. “I’m not hungry. Now will you leave me be? I’m fine. I don’t need you lurking about and peeping at me like I’m some sort of sideshow.” With that, she rolled onto her side, leaving Millie staring at her back. Clearly, she meant the conversation to be over.

“I’m not trying to manage you, but what’s the point of suffering when you don’t have to?” Jean didn’t answer. “I’ll just leave you the tea then, here on the nightstand.” She set the cup and saucer down, making sure it wasn’t too close to the edge. “I’ll be out there if you need… if you want… anything.”

Millie carried the plate back to the kitchen, eyeing Jean’s sandwich and comparing it to the blackened one she’d kept for herself. Shrugging, she binned hers and took a bite out of Jean’s. _Not half bad_ , she thought, _if I do say so myself._ She’d never describe herself as a great chef, not by any means, but her travels after the war had expanded her palate and she wasn’t afraid to try her hand at anything. The kitchen in her flat was little more than a sink and a hotplate, though, and between that and years of being able to take most of her meals at the diner… even now in her bigger place, cooking for Millie generally amounted to little more than a reheat or the occasional scramble.

Jean’s kitchen, while nothing fancy, served its purpose. It had plenty of storage for cookware and ingredients as well as all the necessary appliances – including the icebox that needed more ice, she remembered.

“Maybe one of the neighbors can tell me when the delivery comes,” she muttered to herself just before a tremendous yawn nearly unhinged her lower jaw. Exhaustion threatened to take her, and it was only the first day. Already at a deficit, thanks to repeated nightmares and the long nights keeping vigil by Jean’s hospital bed, Millie hadn’t truly slept since Jean was shot. Now she struggled to function on a couple of hours sleep. At least she’d managed to wake in plenty of time to remove herself from the bedroom before Jean caught her. In fact, with the blackout curtains opened, the morning sun stabbing at her eyes worked better than any alarm.

Not that it mattered. She’d wanted to avoid a row with Jean over her hovering, but Jean had woken up in a foul mood, all piss and vinegar, refusing even to dress. Instead, she’d wrapped herself in her robe for her morning trip to the loo, arguing that an invalid didn’t need anything else. The fact that Millie still needed to help her off the toilet only soured her mood more.

Millie’s only victory had been to coax her into the living room long enough to get a cup of coffee and slice of toast in her – neither made to Jean’s satisfaction, of course. The coffee had been too dark, while the toast had been too light, with far too much butter for Jean’s taste. Millie had done her best to ignore both the jabs and the throbbing at the base of her skull, no doubt caused by her night in Jean’s chair. She kept reminding herself that Jean was in pain, unable to be self-reliant, and all together out of sorts.

She’d offered to remake the toast, but Jean had told her not to bother, that she was going to take a nap. When Millie moved to help her to her feet, Jean turned snappish and insisted she could do it herself. She also still insisted on using the crutches instead of the walking frame. Rather than argue, Millie had simply stood there, hands on her hips, watching Jean struggle. After her fourth attempt to stand sent one of the crutches clattering against the coffee table, Millie couldn’t take it anymore.

“You need something more stable,” Millie had ventured. “Will you please use the walking frame? At least to stand? Or let me help you?”

“I don’t want your bloody help. Or your pity.”

“Fine,” Millie had snapped, “do as you bloody well like! Just remember when you’re arse over tit on the floor it’ll be your own fault!” She’d grabbed the walker and slammed it down in front of Jean, causing the older woman to jump. Realizing she was on the verge of losing her temper, Millie had closed her eyes and taken a deep breath before picking up Jean’s wayward crutch and handing it back to her. “Also remember, Jean,” she’d said, her voice gentle, “that I’m your friend. And that I’m here because I care about you. If you change your mind, I’ll be right here.”

She’d forced herself to go back into the kitchen and leave Jean to her own devices. Jean had sat for an eternity before relenting and using the walking frame to push herself to her feet. Of course, she’d tossed it aside as soon as she’d managed to stand. Millie had watched through a crack in the doorway as Jean gamely tried to manage the crutches, but she didn’t have the balance or the strength to swing her body properly.

Millie had clapped a hand over her mouth when Jean lost her balance and crashed into the wall of the short hallway. She could tell by the way Jean moved that she’d hurt her shoulder, but at least she hadn’t fallen. Fighting against every urge to rush to Jean’s side, Millie had stayed where she was, knowing that if she hurried to help it would only make Jean angrier. Once Jean had moved further down the hall, she’d crept along behind her, breathing a sigh of relief when she’d heard the bedsprings creak once Jean sat down.

Millie dropped the telephone receiver back in its cradle. Again. She’d picked it up and put it back down a hundred times today. Susan had been right; she wasn’t up to the task and Jean would suffer for it. On Thursday, she’d managed to get Jean to come to dinner at the table and do her exercises, but Jean had declined another bath and had gone to bed early. Millie had waited for her to fall asleep before resigning herself to another sleepless night in the chair.

Friday had been much the same. Jean had been stubborn and cross, snapping at everything Millie said or did. Only once, when she’d said something particularly nasty, had Jean apologized, teary-eyed. Millie had hoped that would be a turning point and she was right. Unfortunately, the turn had been downward. Jean had withdrawn even more after that.

On Saturday Jean had refused to leave her bedroom at all, not to eat, not to do her exercises. She only left the room to use the toilet. She didn’t speak to Millie at all, no matter how much Millie tried to engage her.

Now it was Sunday and Jean wouldn’t even get out of bed. Weak from the injury and the infection before Millie brought her home, it didn’t take an expert to see that Jean didn’t have many reserves left. Millie needed help, and she wasn’t too proud to admit it, not when it came to Jean’s well-being. Fortunately, she knew just the person to call. Unfortunately, that person was Susan. Cracking the Enigma code had been easier than deciphering her feelings about Susan and her imminent departure. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, trying to convince herself. “Jean is what matters now.” Millie took a deep breath and picked up the phone again. She dialed Susan, her stomach clenching with every ring.

“Gray residence,” a small voice answered.

“C-Claire?” she sputtered. She hadn’t expected one of the children to answer. “This is Millie, Miss Harcourt. Is your mummy there?” _Of course, she’s there_ , Millie thought. The children would hardly be home alone. She listened to the sound of running feet and Claire’s voice calling for her mother. A moment later, Millie heard the sound of heavier footsteps.

“Millie? Is that you?”

“Hello, Susan…” she said, suddenly at a loss. She should have planned out what she needed to say.

“This doesn’t sound like a social call. What’s wrong then?”

For once, Millie was thankful for Susan’s no-nonsense manners. “I’m afraid you were right. I’m in over my head and I’ve run out of ideas. Maybe she should have gone to the convalescent facility.” With just the barest nudge, Millie spilled it all.

“I see,” Susan said, once Millie had finished. “She’s already reached that stage, then, has she? Didn’t take long.”

“What do you mean, ‘that stage?’ Is she meant to be this way?” She shifted the phone to her other ear, checking over her shoulder to make sure Jean hadn’t left her bedroom.

“Mm… I saw it all the time in hospital. There’s a pattern to it, you see, a pattern to recovery.”

“A pattern. You’re serious?”

“Oh, yes. Every soldier followed the same predictable patterns. At first, they were simply thankful to be alive and away from the front. Then they were determined, sure they’d be fit for purpose in only a few days. But of course, they weren’t, were they? After the first or second setback they’d get frustrated and angry. Once they realized they weren’t likely to ever be the same, the depression would take them.”

“Spot on so far,” Millie admitted. “Jean’s a quick study, I shouldn’t be surprised that only a few days in she’s already at level four.” The joke fell flat, even to her. “What comes next in this pattern of yours?”

“Not my pattern, the patient’s pattern. All of them. Depression marks the point where the pattern diverges. Some eventually go on… they become resigned to their new reality. They accept it and accept the work that they have to do to improve as much as they can or adapt. They go on to be happy; they find purpose. Most do that, eventually. Timothy did.”

“But not all.”

“Not all. Some get… caught, I suppose, at the depression stage.”

Millie leaned against the wall, blinking back tears. “Do you think that will happened to Jean?”

“Jean? No, of course not. First off, Jean has more fortitude than any man I’ve ever met. She may be a bit down right now, but she’ll rally, mark my words. I saw it time and again in the ward with Timothy. Men with terrible wounds made progress where men with far less serious injuries foundered. It often came down to a matter of stubbornness. I’ve not met many as strong-willed as Jean.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Already, Millie felt in better spirits about it all.

“It is. And I’ll tell you another reason I know Jean will recover – because the one person I have met who is every bit as strong-willed as Jean, is you. Jean is lucky to have you, Millie.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Tears welled up in her eyes; she pressed the heel of her free hand against them. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Susan.”

“Lucky I do then, hey?” Millie could hear the satisfied smile in Susan’s tone. “Here’s what we’ll do…”

Millie hung up, seeing a bit of brightness ahead for the first time in days. She just had to make it through this next part. Millie steadied herself outside Jean’s bedroom door. She reminded herself that, as formidable as Jean McBrian might be, Camilla Harcourt was no shrinking violet. She rapped smartly on the door, opened it, and entered. Jean lay in bed, curled on her side, with her back to the door.

“I don’t need anything. You can stop asking.”

“I’m not here to ask, Jean. Susan is coming for dinner. You need to get up and dress.”

“I don’t want company. You two can have the sitting room to yourselves.”

Millie crossed to the other side of the bed so she could see Jean’s face. She wished she hadn’t. Drawn and pinched, Jean appeared to have aged ten years. “She’s not coming to see me, Jean. She’s coming to see you. Now, you can stay in here if you’d like, but Susan’s coming in.” She opened the cupboard doors and examined Jean’s options.

“I told you, I don’t want company!”

Millie yanked a skirt and blouse out, eyeing them in the light and deciding they would suffice. “And I’m telling you that Susan will be in your flat in a couple of hours. She can either see you like this,” Millie waved a hand at Jean, her tone making it more than clear that she disapproved. “Or she can see you pressed and polished in the sitting room. Make your choice, Jean.” She dropped the clothes on the foot of the bed. “Call me if you want any help.”

Millie shut the door on Jean’s response. She’d been called all those names before anyway.

* * *

“In the kitchen!” Susan called when she heard Timothy enter the front door. The thunderous sound of children’s feet raced past, accompanied by shouted ‘hello, mums’ and ‘we’re homes.’ It didn’t sound like the park had done much to burn away their energy.

In the silence that followed their passing, she could hear the thump and shuffle of Timothy’s gait, so familiar after all these years, echoing in the hallway. Sniffing the air, he peeked into the kitchen just as Susan pulled a pan out of the oven. “Something smells delicious, shepherd’s pie?”

“Shepherd’s pie.” She held it up so he could see. The stiff peaks of the mashed potatoes were perfectly browned and crisp.

Timothy reached a finger into the potatoes. “Ouch!” he cried, snatching his finger away and sticking it into his mouth.

“Serves you right. You literally just watched me pull it from the oven.” She placed the pie on the kitchen table, careful to make sure she had it on the hot pad.

“You know it’s my favorite.” He inspected the fresh blister on his fingertip.

Susan pulled her oven mitts off and gave Timothy a quick peck on the cheek. “So I’ve heard. Too bad it isn’t for you.”

“Not for…” He clutched his hand to his chest and staggered back a step. “Machinations! Hallowness! Treachery!”

Susan rolled her eyes and busied herself with getting the roll of tinfoil from the cupboard. “Don’t worry, Master Shakespeare, there’s another one still in the oven. It will be ready in half an hour.

“Ah,” he said, dropping into one of the chairs. “I gather this one is for your friends.”

Wringing her hands together, Susan simply said “Yes.” She couldn’t say why, exactly, but guilt bubbled up every time she talked about her friends from Bletchley. Despite what she’d told Millie, a part of Susan still expected to see recrimination in Timothy’s eyes. A decade of secrets felt like a mountain to move beyond.

Timothy took the roll of tinfoil and tore off a length. He began covering the pie, tapping at the edges in order to keep from burning the rest of his fingers. “How is Jean?”

“It sounds like she’s a bit down. Millie is worried about her.” She sat down in the chair next to Timothy’s. “She’s still weak of course, and she’s feeling…” Susan trailed away, not wanting to put words to it.

“Like a helpless cripple?” Timothy finished softly. “She’s reached that point then, has she?” Susan nodded. “Are you taking this tonight?”

She nodded again. “I thought I’d run it over before supper.”

Timothy leaned back in his chair, studying the curve of his cane. “Why don’t I join you? We can leave the children with Mrs. Johnson for a bit, surely.”

“I suppose we could, but… are you sure you want to?” She finished smoothing the foil with her oven mitts.

Timothy leaned forward and took her hand in his. Frowning, he looked down and realized Susan still had the mitts on. He pulled them off and took her hands again. “Jean is important to you, important enough that you would risk your life to help her when she asked. From what you’ve told me, she and Millie did save your life. That’s no small thing. I’m not going to ask you to violate the Official Secrets Act – again – but you lot go back a long way. You have history. It’s not so different than the sort of history I have with the men from my unit.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “I know from personal experience how good you are at nursing the wounded back to health, and I’ve no doubt you and Millie can do that with Jean. That said, Jean’s going through a very particular sort of experience. I might be able to give Jean some perspective that you and Millie can’t.”

Huffing in frustration, Millie forced the newspaper into a lopsided fold and tossed it onto the sofa cushion beside her. She’d spent the last half hour studying the job listings. There weren’t many for women. There were fewer still that she cared to do. Her typing skills were minimal at best. Her other skills were unverifiable, thanks to the Official Secrets Act. Whatever blotch Masters had affixed to her security clearance remained in place and the thought of going back to working in a diner exhausted her. Maybe she needed to talk to Jasper.

Millie checked her watch again. Susan – and now Timothy – were due in less than twenty minutes. Still, Jean had not emerged from her bedroom. _Fine_ , Millie thought, _two can play at this game._ If she wasn’t out by the time Susan and Timothy arrived, then dinner would be served in the bedroom. Pacing the living room, Millie was about to go and knock again when the door opened. Jean shuffled into the hallway; her clothes draped over the front crossbar of the walking frame. She shot Millie a look that could melt stone before she continued to the bathroom. Millie sighed, both in relief and fatigue. It was going to be a long evening.

Night had fallen heavily by the time Susan and Timothy arrived. Dark clouds had rolled in, blotting out the light from the moon and stars. Dark clouds had rolled in at Jean’s flat, too. Throughout the meal, Jean avoided interacting with Millie at all costs. Polite enough to Susan, the only person Jean really spoke to was Timothy. He’d brought along a folder of papers, the exercises he’d been given to strengthen his leg. After dinner, he eagerly demonstrated the treatments that had worked best for him.

Susan and Millie watched them from the kitchen. “She’s more than a little cross with you,” Susan observed, smiling into her wine.

“Has been for days. At least she’s getting on with Timothy.” She took a sip. “It was very thoughtful of him to bring a cane for her.” It saved Millie from having to purchase one herself. “I hope—"

“Oh my god, how much have they had to drink?” Much to Susan’s chagrin, Timothy was pulling up his trouser leg and engaging Jean in a round of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’ Jean’s wound was the fresher, of course, still swollen, the angry redness stark against her pale skin. Timothy’s scars were old, faded to white or a pale purple. Even so, it was obvious his injuries had been so much worse than Jean’s.

“Only the one? Though Jean’s is stacked on top of a pain pill. I don’t know what Timothy’s excuse is.”

Susan just shrugged her shoulders and refilled her glass. “It’s like this whenever he gets together with his mates from his unit, too.”

Millie kept watching through the doorway. Timothy was a bloody miracle worker. For the first time in days, she could see a spark of something other than self-pity in Jean’s eyes. When Timothy suggested all the girls get together for a game night later in the week, she’d been shocked to hear Jean reluctantly agree. When he’d advised her on the importance of keeping to a schedule and getting dressed every day, she’d nodded eagerly. Millie didn’t care that she’d said all the same things only to be rebuffed. At least Jean was listening now. The man had even cajoled Jean into eating a double serving of Susan’s shepherd’s pie.

At last, Jean’s clock struck nine and the Grays departed. While pleasant, the whole evening had driven Millie beyond the point of exhaustion. Worse, the minute they left, Jean dropped all pretense of her ceasefire with Millie, brusquely wishing her a good night and retreating to her bedroom with a hearty slam of the door.

As soon as Jean had fallen asleep, Millie slipped into the bedroom and took her place in the wingback chair – the same place she’d spent the last three nights sitting sentinel as Jean slept. The fall the first night had broken something in Jean. Not physically. She’d managed to escape with only a few bruises. But mentally, it had taken a devastating toll.

Jean blinked in the darkness, unsure what woke her. Groggy and confused, she finally pinpointed the sound: Millie’s voice, coming from the chair by the window. She pushed up onto her elbow so she could see better. In the pale light that seeped in through the gaps in the curtains, Jean could tell Millie was asleep, but restless. She kept mumbling, dreaming of something disturbing. “Nooo… Jeannnnn… don’t…”

“Millie?” It had no effect. With a grunt, Jean pushed herself up until she could lean against her headboard. “Millie!” Still sleeping, Millie was getting more and more agitated; her head thrashed back and forth. She kept calling Jean’s name. “Wake up! Camilla!” Nothing.

Running out of ideas, Jean threw her spare pillow, hard. She managed to hit Millie square in the chest, waking her with a startled snort. Millie’s eyes darted around the room, wild and frightened until they landed on Jean. “Oh… christ…” she breathed, once she realized where she was. Millie crumpled forward; her elbows planted firmly on her knees as she cradled her head in her hands. Her shoulders shuddered as she tried to catch her breath.

“What are you doing in here?” Jean asked, her voice rough with sleep.

Millie didn’t look up. “Nothing, really… it’s just… I only meant to—”

“Have you been creeping in here every night?”

All Millie did was nod, but it set Jean to growling in irritation. “I don’t need minding like I’m some wee child.”

“I know,” Millie said, unable to hold Jean’s stare. “I know you don’t. It’s only…” She scrubbed at her eyes, silently pleading with Jean to leave it be before turning to stare out the window into the darkness.

More awake now, Jean took note of Millie’s red-rimmed eyes – eyes smudged with dark circles that Millie took care to hide with cosmetics during the day. For the first time in days, Jean took a hard look at her friend. How could she have missed the new angularity in Millie’s face or the looseness of her skin? She forced herself to see the toll her injury was taking on Millie. “You were having a nightmare.” Millie nodded. “About me.”

Millie’s head dipped slightly. That was Jean, direct as ever.

“Tell me about it.”

“Please, Jean, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tell me.” Jean’s tone was gentle, but still, it brooked no room for argument.

Millie wanted to refuse, but… for the first time since Jean fell, she looked interested in something besides herself. As much as Millie hated to burden Jean with her problems, maybe Jean needed to be burdened. Millie picked the pillow up from the floor and squeezed it against her chest. She flicked her eyes towards Jean before fixing her gaze on some point outside the window. After taking a steadying breath, she began.

“We were at Oliver Masters’ house, just as we’d been in real life. It was all just as it had happened – at first. Except…” she tried, and failed, to swallow the lump in her throat. “Except in this one, you weren’t wearing your suit, you were wearing your nightgown, the one you had on the other night when you – when you fell. I can hear the sound of it, the gunshot. It’s so loud it makes my ears ring. You drop and there’s blood – so much blood – far more than there had been. It’s everywhere, flooding across that white gown in a crimson wave. It just keeps coming and coming.” She lifted wet eyes to Jean, finding comfort in the steady warmth reflected back at her.

“Go on, then,” Jean encouraged.

Millie nodded, realizing that talking about it did help, in its own way. “The more the blood flowed, the more all the color started draining out of everything – the rug, the walls… you. Then you started fading away, getting fainter and fainter as more and more blood poured out of you… And then you just vanished altogether and…” Millie shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about the rest. Please, Jean. Don’t make me go on.”

“I won’t,” Jean promised. Her brows knit together as she replayed Millie’s words in her head. “You said ‘in this one.’ When you began telling me about the dream, you called it ‘this one.’ You’ve had others.”

Millie nodded. “Almost every night since it happened.” Pleading eyes turned Jean’s way. “I beg you, Jean. Please don’t put me out. You’re right, you don’t need a minder, but…” Millie trailed off, unsure how to explain that she simply felt better with Jean near. For Jean’s sake, to be sure. She couldn’t allow another middle-of-the-night accident, but she also needed it for herself.

For too many seconds, Jean studied her with the same expression she always got when she was working out some intractable piece of a puzzle or complicated bit of logistics. “You can’t spend the night huddled in my chair.” Millie’s face fell, and Jean knew she’d worded that badly.

Millie tried to hide the trembling of her chin by nodding quickly. “Very well, Jean.” She forced herself to her feet. Straightening to her full height, she crossed the room deliberately, barely bending as she returned the pillow to its place on the bed. “I understand.”

Before Millie could pull away, Jean gripped her wrist. “No, you don’t.” With her other hand, Jean lifted the blankets.

Millie choked on a sob that she tried to stifle behind her hand. “Are you sure?”

Jean nodded, tugging at Millie’s wrist until she climbed into bed. Once Millie had stretched out beside her, Jean flipped the bedding over them both and settled against her pillow. “I’m sorry I’ve made you worry.” She’d just closed her eyes when Millie edged closer. Long fingers circled her bicep.

“It’s not your fault. I hope I don’t repay you by having another bad dream.”

“Don’t concern yourself with that, dearie. I’m here to look out for you if you do.” She covered Millie’s hand with her own, leaving it a moment before giving Millie’s fingers a squeeze and moving her arm back to her side.

“Thank you. And Jean? If you need something – anything at all – I’m here to look out for you too.”

“I know.” And suddenly, Jean did know, with absolute certainty. She knew, too, that the half-imagined, half-remembered feeling of lips pressing against her head every night in hospital had also been real. Before she could talk herself out of it, Jean craned her neck just enough to brush her lips against Millie’s forehead. “Goodnight, Mil,” she said, flushing when she felt Millie smile against her shoulder and shuffle just a bit closer.


	3. Group Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of a dark week, Jean finds a moment of brightness, thanks to her Bletchley girls. Resolving to do whatever it takes to heal, she finds a firm ally - and maybe something more - in Millie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that this story will cover some dark material - not in graphic detail, but it's there nonetheless. We may not be there quite yet, but it's coming. I hope I've written it in a sensitive way.
> 
> On a lighter note, I've tossed in a tiny shout-out to Shrek, our second favorite Scot.
> 
> As always, I owe a great debt to Sparky for all of her hard work.

* * *

The first thought that passed through Millie’s mind when her eyes fluttered open was that the sunlight seemed to be brighter than it ought to be. The second thought was that she was cuddled up to something very warm and comfortable. Her sleep-fuzzed mind took a bit longer to realize that thing was Jean.

She couldn’t stop the suck of air when she realized she was halfway on top of Jean. Her brain frantically began working out ways to extricate herself from this position before Jean awoke when…

“Good morning,” Jean murmured, her voice soft and sleepy. Her burr sounded stronger first thing in the morning. “I take it you slept better? No more nightmares?”

Millie relaxed when she realized that Jean wasn’t bothered by their current position. In fact, Jean’s fingers were absently drawing patterns on the arm Millie had draped across her waist. “Mm-hmm…” She shifted her hand until it was resting against Jean’s hip. “Surely you can’t be ready to get up.”

“I’ve been thinking… about what Timothy said last night. Perhaps I do need to try harder.”

“You’ve never been one to give up.” Millie yawned again. Jean was warm, the bed was soft, and Millie’s eyes were getting heavy again. She squeezed Jean’s hip. “It’s early, darling… there’s nothing we have to do, nowhere to be. Can’t we just have a bit of a lie-in? I promise I’ll make you breakfast later. Full English if you’d like.”

Jean’s body shook as she chuckled quietly. “You’ll make breakfast either way.” She pulled Millie’s hand a little higher, tucking it against her ribcage. “Keep your arm off my bladder and we can sleep for as long as you’d like.” She waited for a response, but nothing came. Millie was already fast asleep.

Millie topped off Jean’s coffee with practiced efficiency. Jean barely noticed. She’d been studying the folder of exercises that Timothy had given her. Millie scanned the paper Jean had filled with notes. “Cracked the code yet?”

Jean didn’t bother to look up. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Millie grinned and snatched the paper from the table.

“Here now!” Jean grabbed for it, but Millie was too quick. “It’s simply a timetable.”

Millie’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs as she studied Jean’s notes. “A most ambitious timetable.” She handed the paper back to Jean. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to do too much?”

Jean’s eyes hardened behind her glasses. “I’ve hardly done anything at all.” She gulped down half her coffee at once, scalding her tongue.

“Jean! I’d just—”

“Topped it…” She sucked cool air in. “Caught that…”

Before she could add anything else, the phone rang. Millie squeezed Jean’s shoulder and swept out of the kitchen into the sitting room. Jean looked up but didn’t attempt to follow. She had no intention of getting up when she didn’t have to. She turned back to her plan, straining to hear Millie’s side of the conversation.

She didn’t have to strain much. Telephone cord stretched taut, Millie stuck her head through the kitchen door. “It’s Lucy. She and Susan want to come over for dinner and cards on Wednesday night – a little celebration with the girls. You up to it?”

Jean leaned back in her chair and removed her glasses. No… she wasn’t, not really. Worry filled her eyes as she stared back at Millie. She couldn’t even keep herself from being awful to Millie and Millie was… Well, she didn’t know what Millie was anymore. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Millie frowned. She didn’t understand what exactly was going on with Jean, but Jean was fidgeting with her pen. Jean did not fidget. “Lucy… I’m going to have to call you back.” She stepped out of the kitchen long enough to hang up the phone.

When she came back, Millie pulled a chair next to Jean and took a seat, draping her arm across the back of Jean’s chair. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

Jean carefully set the pen on the table. “A thousand things, I suppose. What if I snap at them, the way I’ve… the way I’ve snapped at you? What if… what if I have to go to the loo while they’re here? I don’t fancy them knowing you have to haul me off the toilet. What if—”

“What if,” Millie interrupted, placing a hand on Jean’s forearm, “what if you have a lovely time with your friends?”

“Maybe I’m just a foolish old woman…” She flicked her thumbnail under the corner of the folder. “What exactly would we be celebrating?”

Millie squeezed Jean’s arm before grabbing her coffee and stealing a sip. “At last! You’ve asked a question I can answer!” She leaned forward, making Jean meet her eyes before she spoke. “I, for one, will be celebrating the fact that you, Jean McBrian, are still here to snap at me, to need hauling off the toilet… The fact that you are still with me, on this mortal coil, is more than cause for celebration as far as I’m concerned.”

Jean opened her mouth and then shut it again.

Millie smiled; it wouldn’t do to get all maudlin now. “Besides,” she tapped Jean’s timetable, “if you keep up with this regimen you’ve designed, you’ll need a good party.”

_Sometimes_ , Millie thought, _she bloody well hated being right_. It was Wednesday morning, and true to her word, Jean had worked tirelessly on the exercises she’d been given by Timothy. She’d worked too much, truth be told.

On Monday, Jean had stretched, bent, and squatted until her muscles trembled. Millie had steadied and cheered. When she’d seen Jean to bed, once again Jean had grabbed her wrist, telling her it was foolish for Millie to sleep on the sofa, and she was expressly forbidden to sleep on the chair.

If Millie thought that things would be smooth sailing from that point on, Tuesday had proven her horribly wrong.

_Tuesday morning, Millie opened her eyes to find Jean grimacing and trying to stretch out her leg. Scrubbing her face to wake up, Millie crawled over to Jean’s side – she’d been both relieved and disappointed to find she’d stayed on her own side of the bed that night. Not that she had much time to dwell on it, because every time Jean tried to move, it was clear she’d overdone it the day before._

_“Let me…” Millie spent the next twenty minutes – even foregoing her morning cigarette – massaging Jean’s leg, trying to loosen up the tangle of muscles around her scar. She took extra care not to get too close to the bullet wound. Once Jean’s muscles stopped seizing, Millie helped her to her feet. She tried to hand her the walker, but Jean shook her head._

_“Let me try the stick.”_

_Millie pushed away her misgivings and handed Jean the cane. She managed to get as far as the bedroom door before she collapsed against it, motioning for Millie to bring the walker, as she tried to catch her breath._

_Hurrying over, Millie swapped the walking frame for the cane, supporting Jean until she steadied enough to make her way to the loo. Once Jean nodded, Millie gave her a one-armed hug, cupping the side of her head and pulling her close enough to kiss the top, but holding back at the last second. “It’s going to be okay, darling. You just need a bit of time to regain your strength.”_

Jean had nodded in agreement, but Tuesday still proved to be a rollercoaster of a day. Jean’s therapy hadn’t gone nearly as smoothly as it had the day before. Overtired from Monday, her muscles had been shaky, her balance unsteady. It had made her snappish and cross, Millie once again bearing the brunt of it. Still, Jean had insisted on pushing through. She’d fallen twice and by the end of the day her mood had been as dark as the night sky.

Wednesday morning started even worse than Tuesday. Millie had to massage Jean’s leg even longer, pointedly ignoring the tears streaming down Jean’s cheeks. It took so long to loosen Jean’s muscles that they barely made it to the loo in time and, of course, Millie had to help her up once she finished. Exactly as Jean feared would happen tonight. Afterward, Jean had skipped breakfast and gone back to bed. She’d stayed there the entire morning. She’d taken lunch there, eating half a sandwich and a few crisps. But the girls were coming tonight, and Jean was in no fit state for company. Not even her own.

Millie leaned against the door frame, watching Jean’s back as she stared out the window. Why did she feel like Joan of Arc, girding her loins for battle? “Jean? Darling? The girls will be here in a couple of hours. Why don’t we get you into the bath? Perhaps the hot water will loosen up your muscles.”

“I don’t want company tonight,” she said, without moving. “They can save their pity for another night.”

Millie rolled her eyes. _A battle it would be, then_ , she thought, remembering how badly things had gone for poor Joan. “No one is coming out of pity, Jean. These are your friends, and they want to see you.” She stepped into the room. “Come on, darling. You deserve a bit of fun and you’ll have it with the girls. Enthralling as my company may be, I’m sure you’d like to see a fresh face.”

“I don’t want any face.”

“You had a good time when Susan and Timothy came over on Sunday. You—”

Jean rolled over so she could shout at Millie properly. “I just want to be left alone! I don’t need you always trying to nanny me or cheer me up. And I don’t want to have to sit out there and pretend to have a good time while my friends are all pretending that I’m not pathetic!”

“For god’s sake, Jean! No one thinks you’re pathetic but you. But you know what? Fine. You win. Stay in here and wallow in your bed and self-pity all you like. It doesn’t change the fact that your friends are coming here to see you tonight.”

“Just cancel!”

“I’m not going to do that so you may as well take a bath and put on some clean clothes.”

“I don’t want a bath.”

“Oh, I’m keenly aware of that. You haven’t wanted a bath for days. But the girls will be here, nonetheless. So, if I were you, I’d haul my arse to the tub for a bath. And for god’s sake, wash your hair.”

The silence stretched for several minutes. Tired of fighting, Millie turned to leave. She gotten as far as the door when she heard Jean’s ragged whisper. “I can’t.”

Millie stopped, slowly turning to face Jean. Her head tilted in that way it often did when she was trying to sort out a difficult bit of linguistics, “What?”

Jean buried her face in the blankets. “I said that I can’t.”

“Can’t? Of all the…” Millie shifted her weight to one side and folded her arms over her chest. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Grimacing, Jean pushed herself up until she could sit on the edge of the bed. “Between the crutches and that ridiculous walking frame, I can barely lift my arms above my waist, much less over my shoulders.

Millie pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, beseeching the heavens for patience – for her or Jean she wasn’t quite sure. Dropping her hands to her side, she crossed over and sat down next to Jean, so close their shoulders were almost touching. “Why didn’t you just tell me? It’s a problem easily enough solved.”

“I don’t know… I just hate being so bloody needy, like I’m incapable of taking care of myself. I feel like an invalid and that I will be for the rest of my life.”

“Needing help while you recover doesn’t make you needy. You just overdid Monday.”

“I suppose a bath wouldn’t be out of order.”

Smirking, Millie bumped Jean lightly with her shoulder. “I just figured you were using the smell to get me back to sleeping on the sofa.”

Jean chuckled and bumped her back. “I was afraid you would… go back to the sofa, I mean. I have to admit I’ve slept better knowing you were near.” She smoothed the case on the pillow. The sheets needed laundering as much as she needed a bath. “I guess I need to get over myself. Privacy and dignity are overrated anyway.”

“Nonsense,” Millie insisted. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve lost neither one, Jean. You have to give yourself time to recover. You heard what Timothy said Sunday night. Recovery is measured in weeks and months, not days. If you look at it day by day, you’ll always feel like you’re going backwards. You were shot and it will take time to recover. If that means the walking frame or help in the loo or anything… then that’s what it means. That’s all there is to it. Needs must. And after the way you took care of me after… after Crowley. Well, it’s my privilege to return the favor.” She wrapped her arm around Jean and pulled her close, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “But really, let’s see to that bath.”

Despite the stifling heat of the bathroom, Jean insisted the water be as hot as she could tolerate. Millie hoped she wouldn’t pass out, not that she had room to fall if she did. Between her and Jean, a footstool for Millie to sit on, and the walking frame, the bathroom was filled beyond capacity. As she helped Jean off with her clothes, she couldn’t help but notice Jean getting quieter and stiffer with each removed garment. A lone tear rolled down her cheek.

“Remember, darling, just because you need help right now doesn’t mean you always will. You aren’t helpless now; you won’t be helpless later.”

Jean nodded. “Just feeling a bit exposed, I suppose.” She couldn’t explain why it mattered so much that Millie was seeing her this way.

“If you’re worried about how you look, you needn’t be. If you’re thinking that I’m seeing your body and finding it wanting, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m admiring it – and not in a ‘the old gal’s really held up’ sort of way, either.”

That didn’t get any more of a reaction than a slight pursing of Jean’s lips, but at least no more tears had fallen. She even let Mille lower her onto the side of the tub.

As she bent over, Millie spoke low in Jean’s ear. “And if you think that I’m looking at you and having impure thoughts… well, there you have me. I most certainly am.”

Finally, Jean humpfed a tiny smile. “Reprobate,” she said, splashing Millie with the bathwater.

Millie steadied her as she slid into the steaming water. “That’s why you love me best.” She dropped onto her stool behind the clawfoot tub.

“True enough.” Jean relaxed against the back of the tub as Millie went to work brushing out her hair.

Humming softly to herself, Millie worked on Jean’s hair until all the tangles were gone. “You have the most magnificent hair. It’s so thick. I can’t believe you wear it in a bun all the time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I wear my hair.”

“No, not a thing. Now,” she pressed down on the top of Jean’s head, “under you go.” Jean slipped beneath the water, shaking her head back and forth before breaking the surface again. Millie grinned. “Oh, I rather enjoyed that. Highlight of my day.” She poured a generous amount of Sunsilk shampoo into the palm of her hand and began working it into Jean’s hair, massaging her scalp as she did. Jean moaned in appreciation.

“I hate to cut this short, darling, but once more into the breach.” She pushed Jean down again, leaning forward to run her fingers through her hair, rinsing away all the lather. This time when Jean surfaced, she combed the tangles out as gently as she could and left her hair hanging over the edge of the tub. “Let me see the soap.”

“I’m sure I can manage…” Jean protested.

“Believe me, I’m leaving you to scrub all your own bits and bobs, but as long as I’m back here I may as well be useful.” She held out her hand. “Soap.” Jean reluctantly handed it over. Millie rubbed the bar between her hands, working up a rich lather and filling the room with the spicy-sweet scent of English Lavender. Jean’s scent. Pulling her mind back to business, Millie soaped up Jean’s neck and shoulders and began massaging the rock-hard muscles.

“Ohhh… we can have people over every night if this is what it gets me.” She closed her eyes and relaxed against the tub.

Millie worked on a particularly tight knot just above Jean’s shoulder blade. “You don’t need company to get this, darling. We should have been doing it all along. Now,” she cupped some water in her hand and used it to rinse the soap from Jean’s shoulders, “you go ahead and finish up. Just call me when you’re ready to get out. I’m going to see to changing the bedlinens.” She squeezed Jean’s shoulders one last time and kissed the top of her head before hauling herself to her feet.

Lucy arrived first, beelining to Jean’s as soon as she finished her shift at Scotland Yard. “Jean!” She rushed into the room, practically flinging herself at Jean. Luckily, she’d already planted herself into a corner of the sofa. “You look so well!”

“Och, I look like yesterday’s pudding.” Jean forced a grin. “I was just nearly dead last time you saw me, so… I’d hope I look better by comparison.”

Lucy’s smile froze for just a moment, before Millie swooped in to her rescue.

“Jean.” She handed both women a cup of tea. “Behave.” She winked at Lucy.

The way Millie managed to say her name with two syllables stirred something in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t mind me, dearie.” Jean sipped her tea. “Millie tells me I’m a bit cranky.”

“Oh, she’s fine, Millie! Really!” Lucy smiled nervously at Jean.

A brisk knock on the door saved Millie from having to respond. “That will be Susan.” She opened the door to find Susan bearing a large bouquet of flowers. Once Jean had sniffed and fussed sufficiently, Millie hurried them into the kitchen to put in a vase. Lucky she did, judging by the smoky smell just beginning to waft from the oven. Grabbing the mitts, Millie managed to save dinner in the nick of time.

When it was ready, Millie popped her head into the sitting room. “Come and get it while it’s hot, girls.”

With a sigh, Jean reached for the walking frame, gritting her teeth as Lucy fussed over her. Once she’d made her feet, Jean slowly hobbled into the kitchen, her face a frozen mask as Lucy hovered the entire way.

“Dinner was wonderful, Millie. We should have cooked like this when I was staying with you.” Lucy pulled a bit of the pork roast free and popped it in her mouth. “I never cook like this for myself.”

“That little kitchen can barely warm a plate of beans,” Millie teased. She stood up and began shifting the remains of dinner onto the counter in order to make room for the card game.

“If you’ll hand me the containers, I’ll pack up the potatoes,” Jean offered.

“You don’t need to do that!” Lucy hopped up and started helping. “You need to be taking it easy.”

“Trust me, I’ve taken it pretty easy today,” Jean muttered to no one’s attention at all.

“Just leave the dishes in the sink. I’ll tend to those later. I’m feeling lucky tonight.” Millie pulled a deck of cards out of a drawer and set it on the table in front of Jean. “You pick the game.”

Lucy whisked the cards off the table just as Jean reached for them. “Let me do that for you. You don’t need to be stretching like that.”

“Actually,” Susan said, taking her seat again, “stretching is one of the recommended exerci—”

“Who wants some of Jean’s damson gin?” Millie opened a cabinet and pulled out half a bottle of the sweet purple liquid.

“Me,” Jean answered quickly. “I’d like a drink.”

Susan shook her head. “It’s not a good idea to have something alcoholic if you’ve been taking the pain killers.”

“I’ve not had one since this morning,” Jean assured her. Technically, that was true. She hadn’t had one, she’d had two. Which, apparently Millie was aware of judging from the raised eyebrow stare she was now directing her way. Jean shot her a look right back – a look that hopefully conveyed, unmistakably, the message that if a drink did not appear before her in the next few seconds, she would burn her entire flat to the ground.

Millie got the message.

Four glasses clinked onto the wooden table.

Shaking the half-empty bottle in Jean’s direction, she asked if Jean had a secret stash of more.

“If there’s nothing left in the cupboard, then that’s the last of it. More’s the pity, too,” Jean said, sighing. “Won’t see the likes of that until next year, I suppose.”

Millie filled each glass evenly. “Why? You make it yourself, don’t you? Can’t we just make more?”

“Not without a bushel of damsons.” She glanced ruefully at her leg. “They’re in season now and I can’t exactly go traipsing through the countryside gathering more.” She didn’t notice the look that passed between Millie and Susan.

“Then this definitely calls for a toast,” Millie announced, lifting her glass. “To good things – appreciating them while you have them.”

“To good things…” they repeated, clinking their glasses together.

“All right then, Jean, what’s the name of the game tonight?” Millie pointed her glass in Lucy’s direction. “Just don’t pick something that lets Lucy kill us all with that memory of hers.”

“Just because you lose, doesn’t mean it has anything to do with my memory.” She glanced nervously at Jean. “Not that… not that I think you’re going to lose, of course.”

“Not if I can help it.” Jean shuffled the cards. “Whist. Bletchley rules, no partners. It’s every woman for herself.” She winked across the table at Lucy.

Susan’s eyes took on a far-off look, “I don’t think I’ve played Whist since the war. I may need a refresher on the rules.”

“That’s why we invite Lucy,” Jean said drily. “You hardly need the rulebook with her at the table.” Jean blew warm air onto her fingertips and dealt the cards until each woman had thirteen. She placed the last card face up in the center, a seven of diamonds. “There you go, girls. Diamonds are trump.” She looked to her left and waited. Susan threw down a two of hearts, Lucy a three. Millie took the trick with the ace after Jean threw away her five.

“Coming back to you yet?” Millie grinned.

After four hands, Jean lead three games to Susan’s one. She’d have enjoyed gloating about it, save for the fact that everyone but Millie was obviously letting her win. She tried not to let it get to her, but she couldn’t help wondering if this was a harbinger of her future. She didn’t want to be coddled like a frail old woman. She rubbed her hands together under the table. Cold, but too stubborn to admit it, lest they decide granny needed to be tucked into bed.

“Ah-ha!” Millie threw down her cards in victory. She stared pointedly at Susan and Lucy. “You two may want to go easy on Jean, but not me. I’m not too proud to win any way possible.” She stood up and stretched out her lower back. “I think a bit of a break is in order, maybe a switch to a different potable?” She waggled her empty glass at the table.

“I could use a chance to freshen up,” Susan said, making her way down the hallway to the loo.

Millie went into the living room to find a livelier station on the wireless. Lucy stayed with Jean at the kitchen table, stacking the cards together and trading them for a set of dominoes. After a moment, Susan joined Millie at the wireless. Almost at once they were muttering about something, their heads bent together so close they were almost touching.

“Some things never change, do they?” Jean drew Lucy’s attention to them with a small tip of her head. “Back at Bletchley, they always were off in some corner, chatting to themselves like no one else in the entire world even exists.”

At the sound of the dominoes clacking against the tabletop, they separated. Susan walked straight back to the kitchen, but Millie stopped to pick up Jean’s jumper from the sofa. Once in the kitchen, she draped it across Jean’s shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze before sitting down.

Lucy smiled coyly. “I don’t know, Jean. It seems like some things may have changed a great deal.”

“If you say so,” she snorted, pushing her arms into the woolen jumper. Once she had it on properly, she slapped the table and glared at Millie. “I believe you said something about potables? I need a refill. Whisky will be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Susan asked, her tone making it clear that Jean ought not to be sure at all.

“Positive.” She pushed her glass towards Millie, certain the woman understood that she needed a little help if she was going to make it through the rest of the evening.

Millie shrugged and poured a generous two fingers into Jean’s glass, then repeated it for the table. “It’s not like you’re driving home.”

“Indeed. This stuffy old broad needs to let her hair down.”

“Jean!” Lucy sounded shocked. “Who says you’re stuffy?”

“Who doesn’t?” Millie asked, flabbergasted that Lucy would even say that. “Do you not remember what we all used to call Jean back at Bletchley?”

Susan and Lucy shared a guilty look but said nothing.

“The Tweed Dragon,” Jean answered, looking over her glasses at each of them.

“HAH!” Susan pointed at Millie. “I knew she knew!”

“Of course, I knew, you silly girls. You all thought you were so clever.”

“I never called her that,” Lucy insisted, her wide eyes staring up at Jean over the rim of her glass.

“BOOO!” Millie shouted.

“Foul! Foul!” Susan laughed along, sloshing her drink on the dominoes.

“I didn’t!” Lucy gripped Jean’s hand so tightly it was almost painful. “Truly, Jean, you believe me, don’t you? I’ve never thought you were stuffy!”

Millie rolled her eyes; Jean was going to blow a gasket if Lucy didn’t keep treating her like some delicate hothouse flower. “Bloody hell, Lucy, Jean’s the stuffiest person I know!” She pointed at Lucy with her glass again, sloshing a bit of the whisky over the rim. She licked it off her finger before continuing. “Let me tell you, since I’ve been here, you won’t believe the things I’ve seen.” She leaned in and motioned for them to do the same. Looking around the kitchen like she was about to break the Official Secrets Act, Millie whispered, “Even Jean’s knickers are tweed!”

“At least I wear knickers!” Jean shoved a handful of dominoes in Millie’s direction. “Now set up your dominoes and mind your manners. You’re headed the right way to a smacked bottom.”

Lucy nearly spewed her whisky across the table. “She’d probably like it!”

“It all depends on who’s doing the smacking, doesn’t it?” Millie asked, a smug grin plastered across her face. Her whisky nearly gone; Millie swayed slightly in her chair. The girls roared in laughter.

A few more drinks in and the dominoes were long forgotten, and even Jean howled with laughter as she described her first night home and getting tangled in the bloody walker until she’d pissed all over herself.

Timothy arrived promptly at nine p.m. to pick up Susan. After taking one look at them, he took it upon himself to brew a strong pot of coffee and serve them all up a slice of cake. He wisely fled to the car when Millie asked him if he knew about Jean’s tweed knickers.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a seat on the sofa?” Millie asked as they stood side-by-side washing and drying dishes at the sink.

“I’m fine. It’s a relief to stand after sitting so long at the table.” She handed Millie a plate to dry and put away. “I’m glad the girls came.”

“Me too.” She nearly dropped the plate when Jean leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “What’s that for?”

“For forcing me to do it. For not treating me like a bloody invalid. For not letting me win at cards like some old granny in the home.” She pulled the dishtowel out of Millie’s hands, twisting it into long snake. “I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”

Millie reached across and pulled her into a hug. “I’m glad to do it.” She squeezed Jean a bit tighter before letting her go. “That’s what friends are for, right?” She stacked the last plate in the cupboard.

As soon as she did, Jean snapped Millie’s backside with the cup towel.

“Jean!” She rubbed her arse. “What on earth!”

“That was for the crack about my knickers,” she grinned, hanging the towel neatly from its hook over the sink. “I’m knackered. Are you about ready to hit the sack?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Still rubbing her backside, Millie went to fetch the walking frame.

* * *

“You heard the doctor. And Timothy.” Millie stood in front of Jean, hands on her hips. Jean remained planted firmly on the sofa, the walking frame kicked just out of reach.

“I don’t care. I’ve done the other exercises. I’ve already walked back and forth from the living room to the loo four times.” She held up her red, blistered hands. “I can’t do any more – and I’m not about to toddle around my own flat holding your hand like some sort of wee bairn.”

Millie forced a neutral expression onto her face. It wouldn’t do for both of them to get frustrated. They’d had enough of that last week. Now that they seemed to have turned a corner, she wasn’t eager to backtrack her steps. Her eyes roamed the room, looking anywhere but at Jean while she tried to think of something… She studied the bookcase, filled with Jean’s favorite titles. Next, she scanned the pictures on the wall, a collection of sepia faces that Millie couldn’t name but bore an unmistakable resemblance to Jean. She studied the fireplace, her eyes landing on the record player on the table beside it. “I think I can do better than that.”

Kneeling in front of the table, she flipped through the box of records underneath, searching for one that suited. Michael Tippett's _Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli_ … no… Perry Como and the Ramblers… no… Ah. Millie pulled out a Jo Stafford album, _As You Desire Me_. That should do nicely. She loaded the record onto the player, switching it on and carefully setting the needle in place.

As the swell of violins filled the room, she sashayed back to Jean, bending at the waist, and holding out a hand. “Do me the honor?”

Jean stared up at her, lips pursed in consternation. “Yer mad.”

“And you should be well used to it by now.”

Jean’s eyes dropped to Millie’s hand, but made no move to take it. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Millie grabbed both of Jean’s wrists, careful to avoid the raw flesh of Jean’s palms. She tugged until Jean groaned to her feet. “I’ll wager you our last finger of Scotch that you won’t last three songs.”

And there it was again – that little spark of fire back in Jean’s eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“We both know that I would. Dearie.” Millie took Jean’s right hand and set it on her shoulder before pulling her close.

“You’ll not get the pleasure,” Jean said as she grasped Millie’s waist firmly with her left hand. “You’re taller. You lead.”

“That’s how we always did it at The Gates.” She walked them to the open space behind the sofa. “Simple box step?” Millie counted a few beats before pulling Jean into motion. Stiff at first, it took them a verse to adapt the steps to Jean’s weaker leg. Millie hummed along as they slowly circled the room. By the second verse they were moving in harmony.

The song changed and Jean stumbled a bit with the new tempo. Millie bit her lip as Jean’s fingers dug into her shoulder. She tightened her grip, though, holding on to Jean until she settled back into her rhythm. “Steady on, there.” Millie pulled Jean closer and whispered in her ear. “Unless you’d like to admit defeat.”

“Not bloody likely.” Jean held on tighter, leaving Millie to guide them along with the music. She pushed the burning in her leg to the back of her mind and focused on the sound of Millie’s voice as she sang softly along with _Something to Remember Me By_.

By the third song, a light sheen of sweat covered Jean’s forehead and her face had taken on a grayish pallor.

“How are you holding up? Is it too much?”

Jean didn’t try to speak; she just shook her head and held on to Millie’s shoulders with both hands. Millie slipped her own arms around Jean’s waist and tried to support more of her weight. By now, they were doing little more than swaying to the music. After what felt like an eternity, the last strains of _Easy Come, Easy Go_ faded out. Millie pressed a quick kiss to the top of Jean’s head and lowered her onto the sofa. “Well done, Jean. Well done.”

Panting, Jean waved her away. “Get me… the bloody… scotch.”

* * *

Rupert tapped his fingers against the red Formica of the table. He’d been at the diner for almost fifteen minutes. Sammy was late. His own cup of coffee was long gone, and now he was stirring a third spoonful of sugar into the coffee he’d ordered for Sammy. He’d smoked his last cigarette on the bus on the way over. If Sammy didn’t get here soon…

The jingling bell over the door alerted him that Sammy had arrived at last. “About bloody time,” he said, motioning for the waitress to bring another cup of coffee. “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

“I found him,” he said, sliding into the booth. “Weber. I told you I recognized him. He’s going by the name of August Anders now, but it’s the same bloody bastard from the war.”

“So? What if it is him? The war is over, Sammy. What’s the point?”

“You saw what happened after Nuremberg; they all scattered like cockroaches after you’ve turned on the lights. The Allies were fools to let them get away. After all the horror… after all the atrocities… they let those monsters go home to farm and family.”

Rupert stared out the diner window. Sammy was right, of course, but he was taking them down a well-traveled road. “Oh, and you know better than Churchill and the Yanks?”

Sammy leaned forward, close enough Rupert could see the obsession burning in his eyes. “I know that the fall of Berlin didn’t suddenly make loyal party members see the error of their ways,” he hissed. “If that bastard is still out there, then you can bet your last shilling that there’s more and that they haven’t changed.” He jerked back as the waitress placed a fresh cup of coffee on the table between them.

“Can I get either of you blokes something to eat?”

Rupert scanned the menu, “I’ll have the meatloaf, please.” He offered the menu to Sammy, who waved it away.

“Egg salad sandwich on toast, cut on the diagonal, please.”

The waitress took their order and moved on to the next booth.

“Don’t you ever want to order anything else? Every bloody time.” Rupert smiled thinly as the waitress dropped more napkins on the table without stopping her sweep of the diner. “And what does it matter if there are more of them out there? They lost the damned war, Sam, they aren’t about to give it another go when everybody’s worried about Stalin and his ridiculous communism.”

“I like egg salad. And…” he leaned forward again. “This is the perfect time to give it another go. You said it yourself, the whole world is distracted by the Reds. Weber, or Anders, or whatever he’s calling himself now, is up to something. He’s having secret meetings and,” he lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. “I think he’s responsible for what happened with that theatre fire.”

“For god’s sake, Sammy – are you listening to yourself?” He started to say more, but the waitress returned with their plates. He smiled up at her before she moved to the next table.

“No, Rupert, I’ve been listening to him. I’ve met him, talked to him. I even let the bastard beat me at snooker – and nobody ever beats me at snooker.” He took the top off his sandwich and dosed it liberally with salt and pepper. “I’ve been invited to a ‘gathering of like-minded people’ he called it. I tell you it’s a bleedin’ nest of vipers and I mean to snuff them out. I just have to get close enough to do it.”

Rupert dropped his fork to the table. He’d lost his appetite. “You aren’t some Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. swashbuckler, Samuel. If you’re even remotely right, these men are dangerous. What do you mean ‘get close enough?’ How in the bloody hell do you think you’ll manage that?”

“I know they’re dangerous. Better than most. Why do you think I want them destroyed? Never again, Rupert. Never again.” He shook his head. “As for the rest, I mean to join that viper’s nest. Heil bloody Hitler and all that.”

“And you think you can just… grass up a bunch of bloody Nazis? You’re barking mad.” He hated when Sammy got this way. He’d never let go of the war, never moved on from it. But this? This went beyond anything he’d done before.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Sammy leaned back in the booth, rolling and unrolling the napkin on the table in front of him. He cocked his head to the side and studied his friend. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table between them. “What do you make of that?”

Rupert pulled the paper closer, turning it around so he could read it. Or try to. “Looks like a bunch of gibberish to me.”

“Not gibberish at all. Hold up.” Samuel slipped out of the booth, leaving the bar, and crossing the street to a newspaper stand. Rupert watched through the window, confused, while Samuel made a purchase and hurried back to the diner. Sliding into the booth, he dropped a book onto the middle of the table. “Did you ever play at secret codes when you were a lad?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to listen to the Jo Stafford album from the fic, you can find it here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7A0xhCFeL4
> 
> Also, The Gateways or, “The Gates” was a popular UK establishment where lesbians could meet openly during the 40s, 50s and 60s.


	4. Step by Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each step forward, Jean feels like she's taking one step back. Millie hits a breaking point of her own. Can they move ahead, together? Or will the growing feelings between them wither under the weight of Jean's injury?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read this far, you’ve read the tags and warnings and have decided to continue. Thank you. If, somehow, you haven’t read the tags and warnings, please make sure you know what you’re getting into. Nothing is explicit, but there will be some unpleasant details coming.
> 
> Thanks again to Sparky for doing her best to make this thing readable.

* * *

“Millie!” Jean leaned sideways from her spot on the sofa and peered down the hallway. “Millie!” Something crashed in the bathroom and a second later Millie was scrambling down the hallway. She was wearing yellow rubber gloves and holding a sponge.

“What’s happened? Are you…” She stopped when she saw that Jean was sitting, perfectly well, on the sofa. “What’s wrong?”

Jean, realizing what Millie must have thought, had the decency to at least look properly chagrined. “My water…” She pointed through the kitchen door to where her glass was sitting on the kitchen table. “My leg hurts and I was hoping you,” she looked down at her hands, “might… get it… for me.” She steeled herself for Millie’s response.

“Bloody hell! Are you having me on?” She held up her gloved hands and waved the sponge in Jean’s face. “I’m up to my elbows cleaning the loo and laundry. And you…” She started to clap her hand to her forehead but caught herself just in time.

“I didn’t think…”

“Did you misplace your bloody crystal bell as well, your highness? Shall I fetch that for you as well?” She took two steps toward the kitchen. Before Jean could tell her not to bother, she turned to face her again. “You know what, Jean? Get up and get it yourself. Cinderella is taking the rest of the day off.” Millie stomped back down the hallway and slammed the door of the bath behind her. She twisted the handles on the tub. A bath was in order. Millie peeled the rubber gloves off and tossed them into the sink.

The tub wasn’t even halfway full when tiny pinpricks of guilt began poking holes in her anger. She stripped out of her clothes, leaving them where they fell. She dropped into the tub, sending water sloshing over the edge. She slid down until her knees were practically touching her chest. As much as Millie tried to hang onto her anger, it slipped through her fingers faster than Jean’s bar of soap. Of course, Jean’s leg hurt. She’d already done two rounds of exercises today, as well as danced to three songs on the radio.

Millie groaned as she realized that she was the one who’d left the water in the kitchen in the first place. They’d just finished their third song, and Millie had gone to get Jean some water when the phone rang. It had been Susan, firming up their plans for Sunday. Millie had gotten distracted and forgotten all about it. Bloody hell.

Jean watched Millie storm down the hallway. She jumped at the slamming of the door, even though she knew it was coming. She closed her eyes and cursed her selfish presumption. The faint sound of running water carried down the hallway. Jean reached for the walking frame; she needed to make amends.

It took less time than Jean expected to find herself tapping on the bathroom door. She still hadn’t figured out what to say, but she hoped the two fingers of whisky she brought would do some of the talking for her.

When Millie still hadn’t answered on the third knock, Jean eased the door open and peeked inside. Millie was in the bath, slid down with her feet sticking up on either side of the faucet. Water still dripped into the dangerously full tub. Her head was tipped back over the edge of the tub and a flannel covered her face.

Jean stepped further into the room. “May I come in?”

Millie didn’t move. “It’s your flat.”

“As long as you’re here, it’s our flat. I brought you this.” Jean held out the glass, rattling the ice in the hopes of getting Millie’s attention. It did.

“A peace offering?”

“An apology. I’m sorry. I should have just gotten it myself.”

Millie twisted around and dragged her footstool out from behind the tub. “It’s my fault.” She motioned for Jean to sit.

Blinking at the sight of so much skin, Jean dropped heavily onto the stool. As soon as she was down, she knew she’d never get off the low stool without help.

Unbothered by her nakedness, Millie took the glass and leaned back into the water. “I should have just fetched the bloody water.” She took a sip and offered one to Jean. Still flustered, Jean drank half of it down before handing it back. “I forgot about it, plain and simple. You’ve been working so hard, darling. I know your muscles ache.

Jean shook her head. “It’s not the muscles or exercises. It’s my brain that’s atrophying. I need to get back to work, at least part time.”

“At the library?”

“Where else?” She waved a hand dismissively at the contents of the bathroom. “I’ve read all the books, done all the cryptic crosswords, the plain crosswords… I’ve caught up on my correspondence…” Jean nodded, certain of her decision. “I think I’ll go to the library tomorrow morning. Saturday is always the busiest day of the week; they’ll need my help.”

“You’re serious? To the library?” Millie blurted, before she could help herself.

“I’m not helpless, Millie!”

“You’re not—” Millie caught herself before she said something she’d regret. She took a deep breath, trying to calm down before she spoke. She lifted a hand out of the water, shaking off the droplets before reaching over and lacing her fingers with Jean’s. “You’re far from helpless. You’re strong and capable and the person I know I can turn to whenever I’m feeling unsteady.”

“But.” Jean turned her head away.

“But I worry it’s too soon, that’s all.”

“It’s my decision.” Jean pulled her hand free, crossing her arms stubbornly and refusing to look at Millie. “I’m tired of feeling like a burden. It’s been almost two weeks.”

Millie spun in the tub until she was sitting sideways, facing Jean. “Or you could say that it’s been less than two weeks since you were shot.”

The muscles in Jean’s jaw twitched. “I realize that bringing this up so soon after the… the water incident, isn’t the best timing, but—”

“It’s nothing to do with the stupid water. Think about it, Jean. We aren’t talking about walking from the bedroom to the loo to the sitting room. We aren’t talking about a few spins around the sofa while a slow song plays. You have to get from here to a cab and then from the cab to the library…” The London branch Jean worked in was huge. Millie couldn’t even imagine how she’d navigate inside the building, even if she managed to get there.

“You said yourself I was getting better.”

“And you are! But…” Millie pushed herself to her feet, water sheeting off her skin as she plucked her towel from its hook. She cursed herself in at least five languages for the defeat she could hear in Jean’s voice. She hated herself for what she was about to do but she didn’t feel like she had a choice. “Fine. If you can get from the sofa to the loo, to the front door and back to the sofa – twice – I’ll believe that you can get to the library and back.

Owl-eyed, Jean tried to get her brain to re-engage after being eye-level with so much of Millie’s bare skin. “Fine,” she said, not entirely sure what she was agreeing to. Once Millie had wrapped herself in her robe and hauled her to her feet, Jean feared she’d made a mistake. She’d be damned if she’d admit it though.

In the living room, Millie planted the walking frame in front of her, but Jean pushed it away, motioning for the cane instead. Reluctantly, Millie handed it over. Jean had been practicing with the cane more and more, but Millie was certain that was mostly due to her irrational hatred of the walking frame, not because she was physically ready. She bit her lip as Jean struggled to her feet, already regretting challenging her. Millie knew, better than most, that Jean wouldn’t back down. Tightening the belt of her robe, she waited in the doorway of the kitchen, out of the way, but close enough to reach Jean should she fall. All she could do was lean against the wall and tug worriedly at her bottom lip.

Jean started her journey. She hobbled down the hall first, using the wall to steady herself until she fell into a rhythm with the cane. Millie moved to the entrance of the hallway but didn’t follow. At the end, Jean made a point of knocking on the bathroom door, setting the neighbor’s poodle to barking. Red-faced and breathing heavily, Jean returned to the sitting room and made it to the front door.

“Halfway.” She paused to take a deep breath before setting her shoulders and getting a tighter grip on her cane. Then she was on her second lap.

This time, when Jean emerged from the hallway, she was shaky – dangerously so. Millie took a worried step towards her but stopped when Jean shot her a glare that would freeze lava. Three steps into the sitting room Jean’s leg gave out.

Millie was at her side in a flash, ignoring Jean as she tried to push her away. “It’s all right, darling.” Millie dropped to the rug behind her, stretching a leg on either side of Jean until she was settled between her knees, leaning against her chest.

Jean clutched at her leg as the tears came. Millie embraced her from behind, kissing the top of Jean’s head before resting her chin on it while Jean cried it out.

“You’re all right, darling. I’m so proud of you. It won’t always be this hard…” Millie kept up a running stream of encouragement the whole time Jean cried. Finally, her sobs gave way to quiet sniffles and then the hiccups. “Let’s get you back to the sofa, shall we?”

Jean nodded and did what she could to help Millie get her off the floor. Again.

Once she’d deposited Jean back on the sofa, Millie knelt in front of her, a hand on each knee. “You truly are getting stronger. I can see it every day. You only feel like you’re failing because you keep pushing yourself to get better. It is working.”

Jean refused to look her in the eye, glaring instead at the walker, the symbol of her weakness. “I know you’re trying to help, but it’s time to accept the facts as they stand.”

“And what facts are those?” Millie stood and stepped between Jean and the walker. It didn’t matter, Jean just shifted her glare to Millie’s feet.

“I’m… less… now. I need to learn to live with it and start acting as such.” The defeat in Jean’s voice knocked Millie back a few steps.

She leaned on the walker herself until her equilibrium returned. “Wh… Jean? How do… In what world could you possibly be thought of as less than anybody?”

“Please,” Jean snorted and shook her head. “Don’t stand there and lie to me just to spare my feelings. I’m less because I’m old… because I’m plain and fat.” She wiped a lone, mutinous tear from her cheek. “I’m less because I’m a woman – and not just any woman, but a childless spinster and an invert to boot.” Her face twisted when she realized what she’d admitted, but she couldn’t take it back now. “And now, on top of all that, I’m less because I meddled in things that weren’t my business and now I’m a bloody cripple.”

Millie wanted to cry and shout and shake Jean until she saw sense, but none of those were the right thing to do. To be honest, she had no idea what to do. “I can’t say I know how you feel, Jean. I don’t, at least not about being shot. I’m a bit familiar with some of the rest. I don’t know what it feels like to worry that I won’t be able to do for myself or that I’ll have to adapt to a body that can’t always do what I want it to. I can tell you what I do know, though.” She approached the sofa slowly, much like she’d approached skittish horses as a girl back on the family estate. “You are not old, far from it. Neither are you plain or fat. You’re one of the most striking women I’ve ever laid eyes on. And before you try and argue, just remember that I’m the one who’s been helping you in and out of the tub. I know what you’ve got under all those layers of tweed.” She eased down next to Jean, surprised but pleased when Jean pulled her hand into her lap and squeezed it between her own. Maybe Jean was listening. “As for the rest of it, well, from one childless, invert spinster of a woman to another, I’d say none of those things make you less. Rather, they are a part of what makes you so much more.”

“You think I’m being foolish, don’t you?”

“No. I think you’re being human.” She let go of Jean’s hand long enough to slip her arm around her waist. Threading their fingers together, Millie let their joined hands rest against Jean’s stomach. Jean leaned her head against Millie’s shoulder as the silence settled over them. In all these years, they’d never spoken of their preferences before. Back at Bletchley, Millie had suspected Jean knew that she and Susan had been more than just friends. She’d recognized a kindred soul in Jean, even if they’d never acknowledged it. Millie prided herself on her ability to recognize one of her own kind. Jean had always been her own kind – in ways she was only starting to realize now that the lines of rank and duty had been erased.

Jean’s stomach growled beneath their joined hands. She gave Jean’s hand a little shake and pressed it against Jean’s belly. “I’ll make us some lunch. Sandwiches?”

That night, Millie fidgeted in bed, unable to sleep. Next to her, Jean snored softly, deeply asleep. She’d exhausted herself. Millie realized, now, how much she’d been rooting for Jean to succeed earlier. During the war, Millie had thought of Jean as a solitary creature, someone who preferred her own company to anyone else’s. Now, she realized that wasn’t quite true. Jean was an independent creature, comfortable in her solitude but not requiring it. Millie couldn’t believe she didn’t see it before. Jean traded in information. She had contacts everywhere – military, civilian, at all levels. Whenever anyone needed something, Jean knew where to get it, perhaps not the tawdry, black-market trinkets that Millie sometimes dabbled in, but Millie had no doubt that Jean could manage those as well. ‘Solitary’ Jean McBrian was probably the most social of the four of them and she’d been cut off from all of it.

Worse, of all of them, it was Jean who had found her purpose after the war. Her work held meaning for her. She still traded in information, even if she sometimes had to hide her intellect or resourcefulness. She’d lost that too these last weeks. Not a one of them had factored in the toll that being trapped in the flat would take on Jean’s mental well-being. She was foundering as much from a lack of purpose as the injury to her leg. The issue keeping Millie awake, however, was what to do about it.

Millie rolled onto her side so she could face Jean. Gazing across the pillows in the dim light, Millie watched Jean sleep. Featherlight, she traced the furrow between Jean’s brows. Even asleep, the woman never stopped thinking. She needed something new to think about. Still, they’d proven that Jean wasn’t ready to get to the library, much less spend all or even part of a day working. Not yet anyway. If she could keep to the pace she’d set for her rehabilitation, though, could she be ready in a week? Half a week? Jean stirred and Millie draped an arm over her, whispering soothing words until Jean snuggled closer and sank deeper into sleep.

Just as she began drifting off herself, Millie had an idea. If Jean couldn’t get to the library, perhaps the library could come to her.

* * *

Jean turned at the sound of the door, gasping when she saw Millie struggling to balance an armful of packages. “Hold on…” Jean did her best to hurry off the sofa. She managed to reach Millie just before she dropped the basket of fruit she’d pinned between her hip and the wall while she tried to lock the door. “I thought…” She spotted a folded slip of paper tucked in among the apples. “That’s not from the market.”

“No, not the market.” She dropped her purse and the bags on the floor just inside the door. “Not just the market.” She took the basket back from Jean, who snatched the paper out before Millie could take it away.

She opened the note, smiling slightly as she read it. “You’ve been to the library.”

“I have. They miss you. They’re eager for you to get back.”

“So they said,” Jean replied, waving the paper, “with fruit.” She picked through the basket, pulling out a pear. “Too bad I don’t have an answer for them.” She took a bite, humming in satisfaction.

“Good thing for you that I did.” Millie grabbed Jean’s hand and pulled it close enough to steal a bite of the pear. “Mmm… that is a good one.” She picked up the bags, dropping one on the coffee table and carrying the other into the kitchen. “I told them that you’d probably be back part-time next week. Maybe Wednesday?”

“Wednesday? I couldn’t even make two laps around the flat yesterday. They’ve just had time to realize they don’t need me.” She plopped gracelessly back onto the sofa.

“Nonsense. If they didn’t need you, they wouldn’t have sent this.” She took the bag from the coffee table and plunked it down in Jean’s lap before taking a seat beside her. She pulled out several folders and handed them to Jean. “A bit of something from work.”

Jean scowled at the stack of papers. “Busy work.” She tossed them on the table. “And I’m sure you went begging for it just to keep me occupied.” Shaking her head, she climbed back to her feet. “I told you I don’t need to be managed.” She stalked back to the bedroom, banging the cane extra hard against the floor.

“Lucky there’s no neighbors below,” Millie muttered to herself, staring ruefully at the stack of work they’d sent home with her. She’d honestly thought Jean would appreciate having something to keep her occupied – not to mention Millie knew damn well that no one else at the library would do it to Jean’s satisfaction. “Bother…” she said as she realized she’d have to do it herself. She’d promised one of the women that she’d bring it back tomorrow.

A knock sounded at the door just as she went to pick her coat up from the floor. Tossing it over the arm of the sofa, she hurried to the door. “Susan! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” She pulled the woman into the flat, thankful for a friendly face. “And Lizzie! I didn’t see you there.” She pulled her in too.

“We can only stay a minute,” Susan said. “I’ve got to get home before Timothy and the children get back from the park. We’ve just stopped by to tell you the good news. Is Jean about?”

Millie’s shoulders sagged. “She is, but… things are a bit grim at the moment.” She could tell that Susan understood, but Lizzie…

“What does that mean? She’s on the mend, isn’t she?” Lizzie’s eyes bounced back and forth between them.

Suddenly, Millie was too tired for all of it. “She’s feeling a bit down at present, but maybe you’ll cheer her up. Come on, then.” She led them down the hall. “Jean?” She gave a quick knock on the door before opening it a crack. Thankfully, Jean was sitting in her wing chair, staring out the window. “We’ve got some company. Shall I let them in?”

“Do I have a choice?” she said crossly, snapping her book shut.

Millie glanced at the bed, where a set of pyjamas was conspicuously laid out on each side. _Too late to do anything about that now_ , she thought, not really caring. Pushing the door all the way open, she motioned for Susan and Lizzie to follow.

Lizzie stepped forward, hands in her jacket pocket. “Hello, Jean. You’re looking well.” Jean pressed her lips together in something like a smile but didn’t say anything. Lizzie plowed on. “The solicitor phoned. They’ve scheduled a hearing to overturn Alice’s… Mother’s… conviction. He says she should be released in less than a fortnight. You’ve all done so much for her, for us… I wanted you all to be there to meet her when she gets out.” She took in the room, her eyes lingering on the bed. “Will you come then?”

Millie waited for Jean to answer.

“Of course, we will,” Jean said at last. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

After a bit more small talk, Susan and Lizzie said their farewells.

“Now I’m a bloody liar,” Jean spat, once they’d gone.

“What?” Any hope Millie had that Susan and Lizzie might have lifted Jean’s spirits evaporated under the heat of Jean’s tone. “What have you lied about?”

“I’ve just lied to that poor girl about meeting Alice when she’s released. You saw how it went yesterday. I’m not fit for purpose – any purpose, much less a trip out to the penitentiary.”

“Now that’s the first lie I’ve heard from you today. Leg be damned, you’re more than fit for purpose. Now, unless you’ve become some sort of fortuneteller, you can’t be certain you won’t be able to be at the prison. That’s weeks away. Don’t count yourself out.”

“I never took you for such an optimist.” Jean’s tone softened enough that Millie braved taking a seat on the corner of the bed.

“You know me, darling. I’ve always been a realist – a hopeful realist – but a realist nonetheless.” She remembered how long she’d clung to the fantasy that Susan would eventually join her on their long-planned adventure. She found the memories didn’t tear at her heart the way they once did. “One way or another we’ll get you there, all right?” She waited for Jean to nod. “Good girl. Are you hungry?” She may as well start dinner, even if she’d likely be eating alone again tonight.

“No.”

Millie leaned forward and squeezed Jean’s knee before she made for the hallway. At the door she stopped and turned back. “Any time you start to think of yourself as less, darling, I want you to think about this: Alice Merren will live because you ‘meddled’ in something that wasn’t your business. Lizzie is alive because you ‘meddled.’ A mother and daughter will have the chance to know each other, to try and build the family they should have been, and that’s all because you ‘meddled.’ You’re right. You’ve paid a steep price and you’ve every right to be angry about that, but angry as you are, I know you wouldn’t undo it at the cost of their lives.” She closed the door behind her.

“You never came to bed,” Jean whispered, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.

“Bloody hell!” Millie shouted, nearly jumping out of her skin. She scrabbled to catch the pen and papers she’d sent flying across the table. “You nearly gave me a coronary.” Her eyes darted between Jean and the papers before she whispered, “I thought you’d be glad enough to be rid of me.”

“Hardly. I think it would be the other way around.” She took a step closer and placed a hand on Millie’s shoulder.

Millie covered Jean’s hand with her own. “Hardly.”

Jean studied the papers in front of Millie, the work from the library. She could see that Millie was giving it a good go, but… she clearly hadn’t trained as a librarian. “You needn’t do my work for me.” She hoped that would be enough to pull Millie away. She’d spotted a couple of errors in the cataloging already.

“I do, in point of fact. I promised I’d bring it back tomorrow.” She grinned ruefully, mostly at herself. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. “You needn’t concern yourself with it, though. I’ll see that it’s done. Go back to bed.”

The stirrings of shame curdled in the pit of Jean’s stomach, but she didn’t care to admit it. Instead, she checked Millie’s work over her shoulder. “What’s that bit meant to be there, then?”

Millie rolled her eyes and sighed. She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs with her foot. “Perhaps you’d rather see to it yourself?”

Jean dragged the chair over to sit beside Millie’s. Once seated, she pulled the pen from Millie’s hand and scanned the pages she’d already completed. In no time, Jean lost herself in the figures, quickly making progress – correcting a couple of Millie’s mistakes and catching up on the items her coworkers had let slide in her absence. So engrossed in the work, she forgot that Millie was sitting there until the younger woman spoke.

“I thought you weren’t going to do it.”

“That was before you decided to step in. I couldn’t let the other librarians think I was the one that buggered it.” She kept her eyes on the paper but couldn’t keep her lips from twitching as she tried to stifle a grin.

“God forbid.” Millie leaned back in her chair and scrubbed her face with her hands. “Oh, I found this in the first folder.” She reached across Jean and handed her a thick envelope. “I thought it was part of the paperwork and I opened it. They took up a collection.”

Touched despite herself, Jean opened the envelope. “Good lord!” She clapped the envelope to her chest. “Did you…”

Millie nodded. “One hundred pounds. Those are good friends.”

Jean nodded, in a bit of a daze. “I’m lucky to have good friends.” She reached out and squeezed Millie’s elbow. “And great ones.”

She eyed the envelope. “Not that great.”

Jean twirled the envelope between her fingers. “As generous as this is, it’s easy to give money. You’ve given up your home, your time… your sanity. I may not always show it, but I’m profoundly grateful for all you’ve done for me, Millie. You aren’t cowed by me – you never were. It’s why you were my favorite back at Bletchley. Under all that snark and bravado, you’re one of the most caring women I’ve ever met. But you understand that sometimes caring looks like a cup of tea, sometimes a shoulder to cry on, and sometimes a swift kick in the arse.” She took a last look at the envelope and made a decision. “That’s why you need to take this.” She pressed the envelope into Millie’s hand.

“Jean! I can’t take this!”

“You can. You will.” Jean spoke in earnest now. “I dragged us all into this… I’m the one who insisted that we clear Alice’s name. It’s my fault you lost your job and I know it worries you.”

“Nons—”

“Sometimes you talk in your sleep.”

Tears welled in Millie’s eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“But it will be because you haven’t been able get another job because you’ve been tending to me. The Colonel is paying my expenses as a sort of restitution.”

“Or penance.”

“Aye. But no one is paying yours, so please, Millie. Take the money and pay your rent and whatever else needs paying.”

Millie wanted to refuse, but Jean was right. Her rent was due at the end of the week. “I shan’t take it all, not now.” She opened the envelope and divided the money in half and handed the rest back to Jean. “This will cover my rent and anything else. We can revisit the matter again if needs be.”

“Fair enough,” Jean agreed, accepting that she couldn’t push Millie much further on the matter.

“Thank you.” Millie felt a tightness that had been growing bit by bit each day finally ease. She leaned in and waggled her eyebrows. “I always knew I was your favorite.”

“Humpf.” Jean turned her attention back to the paperwork. “If you say a word to the other girls, I’ll deny it to my last breath.”

“Of course.” She made a quick cross over her heart. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

“Since you’re being relieved of duty, I could do with a bit of something to drink.”

Millie studied her a moment, trying to decide if she should spoil the mood and speak up about the amount of alcohol Jean seemed to be mixing with her pain pills. Before she could say anything, Jean spoke again.

“I suppose it’s long years of habit, but I can hardly face this rubbish without a good cup of tea. Strong tea.”

“Coming right up,” Millie said, the relief bleeding through her voice. She popped to her feet and, before she could stop herself, Millie stepped behind Jean and leaned down, bussing the top of Jean’s head. Jean didn’t say anything, but Millie could swear the tips of her ears were pinker than they had been a moment ago.

* * *

“You’re going to have to trust me, darling. Sturdy shoes, comfortable clothes, a jumper and yes, the bloody walking frame.” Jean opened her mouth to argue, but Millie cut her off with a wave of her hand. “You have your cane. No one is forcing you to use the walking frame, but we’re taking it.”

“Taking it where?”

“You’ll see.”

Jean thumped her cane against the floor. “And what if I refuse to go?”

“You won’t. You’re too curious.” Millie packed a couple of the apples from the fruit basket into her bag. Outside, a car horn honked. “Finally. Do you have everything?”

“Millie…” Jean’s aggravation was rapidly being edged out by worry. “I thought we proved that I can’t make it to a cab.”

A light knock sounded at the door. “Lucky for us we aren’t taking a cab.” She opened the door to Lucy and Susan, both casually dressed and grinning from ear to ear.

“Jean!” Lucy rushed forward, flinging her arms around Jean so hard they almost tumbled onto the sofa. “You look marvelous! Oh, Susan, doesn’t she look marvelous?”

“She’s looking very well. How are you feeling?”

Jean resisted the urge to throw out a quick ‘fine.’ Instead, she decided to just be honest. “Like I take a step backwards for each step forward. I’m frustrated and exhausted, with muscles that scream every morning. But I also feel stronger. More myself every day and lucky to be alive, to be able to walk at all and to have friends like you lot.”

Lucy hugged her again. “We’re the lucky ones.”

Jean let Lucy stay latched to her for a few minutes before gently moving her away. “All right, then. You’ve been cryptic long enough. What’s this all about?”

“Getting you out of the flat before you drive me mad.” Millie snapped her fingers and pointed at the bag and blanket by the door. “Load up, ladies! Jean – follow along at your pace. We’ll be back in a flash.” Each woman grabbed a different item and bundled them out of the flat. After a stunned moment, Jean made for the hallway, cane clacking against the hardwood as she went.

“What are we doing here?” Jean leaned so far forward she could have been sitting between Susan and Lucy in the front seat. The hospital loomed ahead of them. “Millie?”

“Nothing to worry about, darling,” she said, smoothing the back of Jean’s jumper. “We just need to drop something off.”

Jean eased back onto the seat, looking anxiously at Millie. She relaxed a bit when Millie winked at her.

Susan pulled the car into a space. She hadn’t even cut the engine before the doctor who had treated Jean appeared out front.

“Miss McBrian!”

Jean shot Millie another look before opening the car door and climbing out. As the doctor fussed and fawned over Jean, Millie hauled the walking frame out of the boot.

“Ah… the frame! How did you find it?”

“Couldn’t have managed without it,” Jean fibbed. Crushing the doctor’s excitement with her continued disdain for the blasted thing felt churlish. They chatted a bit more before the doctor begged off and sent them on their way.

Back on the road, Jean again tried to suss out their destination. Unable to take it anymore, Lucy had blurted out that it was a surprise, but that Jean would be plum delighted. Millie and Susan’s groans drowned out any questions Jean might have had.

At last, Susan turned the car onto a narrow, unpaved road. As she crested a small hill, Jean saw it, a tiny grove of plum trees, their branches heavy with fruit. She rolled down the window to let the air in, filling the car with the rich scent of damson plums. “What have you girls been up to?”

“Plotting!” Millie laughed, pleased to see the delight on Jean’s face. “It’s about bloody time we got out of that apartment.” Reaching across the seat, she patted Susan’s shoulder. “Susan gets all the credit for the spot.”

Susan pulled the car off the side of the road and cut the engine. She twisted in her seat so she could see Jean. “Timothy and I used to come out here to get away from the hospital. I always thought it was lovely.

“It’s beautiful,” Jean agreed, inhaling deeply. “It smells like summer.”

Millie turned serious. “More importantly, there are enough damsons here to keep us in gin for a year.”

“Plotting, indeed!” Jean opened the car door, eager to start gathering plums. She stopped when she saw the unevenness of the ground. Managing on the smooth floors of her flat was one thing, but… For the first time since this whole mess had started, Jean wished she had the walker.

A warm hand landed on her knee. Millie was there, kneeling in front of her; she hadn’t even heard her get out of the car. “Steady on, darling. You can do this. We wouldn’t have brought you if I didn’t have absolute confidence.”

Jean looked to the other women, startled to realize they were no longer in the car. How long had she been staring at the ground anyway? She turned back to Millie. The woman wasn’t just humoring her, Jean realized. Rather, Millie was smiling up at her with an air of certainty that even Jean couldn’t doubt.

“All right, then.” Pushing herself to her feet, Jean took a moment to let the muscles of her bad leg stretch. Millie held out her cane and Jean reluctantly took it, testing out her balance on the grass. A few yards ahead, under the shade of the plum trees, Susan and Lucy had spread out a blanket and were busily unpacking a picnic lunch.

Jean took a step forward but couldn’t bring herself to let go of the car door. She couldn’t bear to fall again, not now, not here in front of Susan and Lucy. She couldn’t stand the thought of seeing the pity in their eyes.

Sensing her hesitation, Millie stepped to Jean’s left side and held out an elbow. “Milady?” Millie asked, her voice lower – and even breathier – than usual.

It was just enough to knock Jean out of her head. “How do you manage to make something so proper sound so inappropriate?” She threaded her arm through Millie’s, nonetheless.

Tossing her head back, Millie laughed. More than she had in weeks, Jean realized. “I can make anything sound inappropriate. It’s a talent bestowed by God himself.” She leaned closer to Jean and whispered. “Let’s go enjoy our picnic.” She sounded positively lascivious.

Jean swatted her arm but said nothing. She couldn’t. Her mouth had gone bone dry.

"Do we have to do this tonight? You've had a busy day. ” Millie eyed the ingredients and equipment covering Jean’s kitchen counters.

“Best to get started straight away.” She handed Millie a fork. “Sooner begun, sooner done.”

Millie bounced the fork in her hand. “And sooner drinking. What do I do?”

“You’ll like this bit.” She picked up a damson and began pricking holes in the skin. Once she’d stabbed it five or six times, she dropped it into a Kilner jar. “Jab the little gobbers and drop them in the jar.” She measured out half a cup of sugar and handed it over to Millie. “Sprinkle the sugar in as you go. Once you’ve filled the jar, seal it up and give it all a good shake. Then move on to the next one.”

Millie eyed the number of jars on the counter. There were fifteen. “And the gin?” She picked up the one half-empty bottle of gin Jean had gotten out of the cupboard. “There’s no way that’s enough.”

“That’s not for the damsons, that’s for us.” She pulled two small glasses from another cupboard and poured them each a healthy serving. “Cheers.” They clinked glasses and took a sip before returning to the job at hand.

Halfway through, Millie could tell that Jean’s leg had reached its limits. “Why don’t we finish at the table?” She dropped her voice to a lower register. “I can prick just as well sitting down, can’t you?”

Jean accidentally stabbed herself in the meat of her palm. “Y-yes… I think sitting down… would be good.” She carried her bowl of damsons to the table and went back to work, doggedly ignoring the heat warming her cheeks. “You’re shameless.”

“Completely.” They worked in silence for a while, the basket of damsons dwindling faster than Millie had expected. “You certainly managed to get around well enough today. Mind you, I never had a doubt.” She flashed Jean a quick smile. “Truthfully, how does the leg feel?”

“Like I’ve used it, but in a good way.” She sprinkled more sugar into her jar. “I’m trying to be pleased about it, but… I’m so tired it’s hard to tell if I’m making progress.”

“But Jean, you’re making great progress! Your leg is getting stronger every day. That’s something to celebrate.” She leaned back in her seat, licking some juice from her pink-stained fingers. “You may not remember what all the doctor said when he dismissed us; you were still a bit loopy on the painkillers, but he said your leg will recover faster than your stamina. It sounds like you’re right on track, maybe even ahead.”

Jean sealed her last jar, giving it a thorough shake. “I think the exercises have helped.”

“Of course, they have.” Millie pushed one of her jars across the table for Jean to fill. “I think, if you’re feeling up to it, you could probably go to work for a couple of hours as soon as tomorrow or Tuesday.”

Jean had to admit the idea both thrilled and frightened her.

“You needn’t look like I’m throwing you into the lion’s den. It’s only if you’re up to it and I’ll go with you.” She sealed her last jar. “Now. What about the gin?”

“Let’s just say the generosity of my coworkers will be put to excellent use.”

“Brilliant!” Millie shouted, clapping her hands together. “And you call me shameless!”

* * *

  
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Millie tapped her fingers nervously on the counter. She’d been in the library dozens of times in the past year. How had she never realized the sheer size of it? The expanse of the library loomed much larger than she remembered, compared to the coziness of Jean’s flat.

“Quit fussing over me. You’re like a mother hen. They’ve posted me at the circulation desk so all I have to do is sit here and check out books. Maybe answer a few questions.” She could see the worry in Millie’s eyes. “Look, they’ve even given me a bloody little bell to ring in case someone needs to be shown something.” She tapped the button on the silver call bell next to her. Seconds after the ping, an older woman emerged from the stacks. At once Jean began to wave. “I’m sorry, Edna! False alarm! I need to push it a wee bit further away.” With a flourish, she slid the bell a few inches further off to the side. She stared over her glasses at Millie, her expression nothing short of monumentally aggrieved. Slowly… oh so slowly… she lifted one eyebrow and reached for the bell again.

“Jean McBrian! Don’t you dare!” Millie giggled and smacked her hand down over the bell, smothering the clack of the plunger. “Be nice to her.” She pushed the bell further away. “And don’t even think about bringing that thing home.”

“Spoil sport.”

“Terror.” She resisted the urge to kiss the top of Jean’s head – something she found herself doing more and more frequently. Instead, she ran a hand down her arm and squeezed her elbow. Taking in the light crowd, Millie decided to leave Jean to it for a couple of hours, at least long enough to stop by her flat and fetch her post. Maybe she could stop by the market and pick up something special for dinner. Surely Jean’s first day back at work deserved a bit of a celebration.


	5. Past Imperfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost from Jean's past crashes into her present, plunging her and Millie into a new mystery. Relying on each other, Millie and Jean grow closer every day - even as dangerous forces cast long shadows over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the point where things take that darker turn - it's no more explicit than the show, but it's there nonetheless. I've done my best to write it responsibly.
> 
> As always, I owe a great debt to Sparky for all of her hard work. Case in point:
> 
> Me: Why is there no word for the part of the body between your elbow and shoulder?  
> Sparky:...  
> Me: The space between your knee and hip has a name, it's not 'upper leg.'  
> Sparky:...  
> Me: If there's no name for it, I'm just gonna call it 'arm-thigh.'  
> Sparky: Are you drinking?
> 
> She wouldn't let me use 'arm-thigh.' Don't think I didn't try. I suppose we can all be thankful for that. And no, I wasn't drinking.

* * *

Sammy checked the cipher against the pages again, panic rising in his chest. There had to be a mistake. The key didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? He grabbed another book and tried again. Still gibberish. He tried another and another. With each attempt his stomach twisted tighter in his gut. When the last book failed to work any better than the first, he feared he’d been found out. Pacing the floor of his tiny flat, he tried to work out what to do.

He convinced himself there had to be a mistake. He mentally retraced his steps but found no error. He’d been too careful. It had all gone to plan so far. August had even introduced him to more of his friends, people described as ‘men he worked with in the war.’ He needed more, though. Vile comments about the ‘wrong’ sort of people and raucous stories from ‘the good old days’ might make Sammy’s stomach turn, but they weren’t proof of anything. He needed more. He needed the invitation to the meeting August had dangled in front of him, but each time he tried to decipher the invitation, he failed.

The cipher!

Relief rushed through him. That had to be it. They’d changed the key to the cipher. He gathered everything up and stuffed it all back into his hiding place. He still had a few hours before the library closed; he still had time to salvage his plan. It would be all right. It had to be.

Samuel surveyed his flat one last time, checking that his hiding places were secure. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop second-guessing himself. Wanting some sort of insurance, he retrieved a couple of the messages and all the notes he’d collected over the past few weeks. He dug through the drawers in his kitchenette until he found a wrinkled envelope. Carefully addressing it to himself, he folded his notes into it and hurried off to post it. If he had been found out, at least the information wouldn’t be lost. 

On the street, the skittery tingle of watching eyes prickled at his neck. He shivered in the sunlight. Taking the long way to his destination, he doubled back; he entered one café through the front and ducked out the freight doors; he even climbed onto the trolly and hopped off as soon as it started to move. Still, he could never shake that feeling that he wasn’t alone.

It didn’t matter; he needed to find the new key. And there was only one way to get it. He dropped his letter in a post box across from the Black Forrest Bakery. Checking up and down the street, he still didn’t see anyone familiar.

Inside the door, he paused, inhaling deeply. The yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread soothed his nerves. It reminded him of Saturday mornings as a boy. Saturday had been his mother’s baking day. The aroma of baking bread would fill the house, then later, the rich scent of chocolate cake. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of happier days until he felt more centered.

A woman bumped him, knocking him out of his reverie. Right, then. Business. He picked up a loaf of bread and took it to the counter. He made a bit of idle chitchat with one of the other customers as he waited in the queue. He reached the front at last. He placed the loaf on the counter, smiling nervously as the shopgirl wrapped it in paper.

“Will that be all?” She smiled as she handed it back to him.

“Yes, I believe – wait. I don’t suppose you have those little walnut biscuits, do you? I developed quite a taste for them during the war.” He saw the flash of recognition in her eyes.

“I believe there may be a few left in the back. Let me go and check for you.” The girl disappeared, returning a moment later with a small stack of biscuits wrapped in red cello paper.

“Brilliant!” He paid for his items and hurried out of the bakery. He didn’t see August step out of the back room.

Outside, he chucked the bread in a bin as soon as he rounded a corner. Sagging against the wall, he waited for his heartbeat to slow back down. He hefted the parcel of biscuits in his hand. Part of him couldn’t believe he’d managed it. Pushing away from the wall, he smoothed his jacket and tie and made his way to the public library down the block to check out the public notice board.

Samuel kept up his roundabout path to the library, stretching the five-minute walk into fifteen. He glanced down the street one last time before entering the building. Nodding politely, he held the door open for an older woman leaving with an armload of books. He scanned the library, his heart sinking when he recognized the woman at the circulation desk. He’d have to make sure he kept his back to her.

He pulled the biscuits from his pocket, wincing at how loud the crackling of the cellophane sounded in the quiet of the library. He should have opened it outside. At last, he pulled the cellophane free. He separated the folded message from the cardboard base and slipped it into his pocket.

Samuel pretended to study the public notice board, his eyes roaming among the messages and adverts until he could be sure no one was paying him any mind. He even copied down a few useless numbers on a bit of scrap paper. Satisfied at last, he smoothed the cellophane over an elaborately designed red and blue advert for an open poetry night at a nearby pub.

Once he covered the design with his red cellophane, the red ink disappeared, leaving only the blue design behind. Quickly, he scanned the squiggles and tics until he found the stylized letters that formed the keyword to the cipher.

His heart sank all the way into his bowels. Dark spots flashed in front of his eyes. “It can’t be…” Staggering away from the notice board, he fled to the nearest table. He didn’t have time to get back to his flat. He needed to know now.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fumbled through his pockets searching for the code. He finally pulled it, and a couple of the biscuits, out of his pocket, dumping it all on the table in his panic. He broke the tip of his first pencil. He stole another one from a passing woman’s handbag. Covering his eyes with shaking hands, he willed himself to calm down. He didn’t have time to make mistakes. Once his nerves settled, he opened his eyes and set to work on the cipher.

It only took him a few minutes. It had worked. Perfectly. He’d hoped the keyword had been a mistake. Now he knew it wasn’t. The solution had been too easy, too obvious. He needed to—”

“Sir, no food or drink allowed in the library.”

“What?” He said it far too loudly. Too many heads had swiveled his way. “I’m sorry. What?” He crumpled his scratch paper into a ball.

Edna pointed at the biscuits he’d forgotten on the table. “You need to put those away, sir.”

“O-oh,” He snatched up the biscuits at once. “Apologies, ma’am. I forgot about the rule. I’ll put them away.”

“See to it that you do.” She held out her hand. “I can dispose of that for you, if you’d like.” She smiled as Samuel handed the paper over.

Samuel waited for her to leave before shoving one of the biscuits in his mouth on the way to the fiction books. Maybe he would get lucky.

The first wave of dizziness hit before he was halfway across the library. It sent him stumbling into a shelf of encyclopedias. Shaking his head, Sammy pushed himself forward. The books swam in front of his eyes. He stumbled again, this time knocking a chair over. He tugged at his collar; he couldn’t breathe. He sucked in air as fast as he could, but his lungs didn’t want to work. Sweat rolled down his face and chest. He lumbered forward as frightened patrons scattered out of his way. His guts clenched; his chest clenched harder.

Jean’s head jerked up at the first noise. A patron was careening through the library, staggering from one shelf to the next. Either that or another drunk had wandered in off the street.

“Are you all right?” Jean called, grabbing her cane. She’d just rounded the circulation desk when the man fell, sweeping an entire shelf of books to the floor as he went, knocking more off as he crashed into another case. She stopped long enough to pound on the bell, bringing Edna running. “Hurry!” She pointed to the row where a crowd was already gathering. “Over there, in fiction.”

By the time they reached him, the man had collapsed into convulsions on the floor. Jean dropped to her knees beside him, groaning at the sharp pain the sudden movement caused her thigh. She struggled to roll him over in the tight confines of the aisle. Edna hurried to help. As they flipped him to his back, Jean caught the distinctive whiff of almonds. Froth bubbled out of his mouth and down his chin. His lips turned blue, and then… nothing. Edna screamed and swooned against a shelf.

“Edna!” Jean searched the throng of patrons that were crowding into the aisle, craning to get a look at the man on the floor. “Someone ring for an ambulance!” Jean started to check for a pulse before the shock of recognition stilled her hand. “And someone move these looky-loos back.”

“Jean?” Millie’s voice carried over the commotion.

Relief washed over Jean. “Over here!” The sound of Millie’s voice was like the cavalry riding over the horizon when she heard her cutting through the crowd.

“What’s happen – Jean! Are you hurt?” Millie knelt beside her.

“I’m fine, but he’s not doing so well.”

One of the other librarians began moving the people back. “I’ve phoned the police.”

“Thank you, Judy. Would you mind seeing to Edna?” Each time the poor woman came to, she’d take one look at the dead man and swoon all over again. Judy carefully stepped over them and helped Edna to her feet. Once they’d vacated the aisle, a cloak of silence fell over them. Jean couldn’t take her eyes off the man in front of them. “I know him… Knew him, rather.”

“Hm?” Millie had been staring at him too. “Was he a regular?”

“Not really. He’s only been here a few times before today. He’s from Glasgow, Bernard Sinclair. I recognized him straight away the first time he came in. He denied it though, insisted I was mistaken and that his name was Samuel something or other. Avoided me like the plague after.” She leaned over and scooped some of the air towards Millie. “Do you smell that?”

Millie scrunched up her face but leaned forward and took a sniff anyway. “I don’t smell anything. Thank God.”

“I did. Almonds.” Jean shook her head. “This wasn’t a coronary or some sort of stroke. Cyanide smells like almonds. Someone poisoned him – and I don’t care what he said, that man’s name is Bernard Sinclair. There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

A chill washed over Millie, raising the fine hairs on her arms. “Oh, Jean… what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to tell the police.” She shook her head at Millie’s skeptical expression. “I mean it. Look where meddling had gotten us. Susan nearly killed, me shot. I can’t have something happen to you. Or Lucy.”

The echo of racing footsteps filled the library. The police had arrived.

“And that’s everything you can recall?” The constable looked at her over the top of his notepad.

Jean hesitated. She glanced at Millie who nodded back in encouragement. “It’s everything that happened when he collapsed, but… I knew him. His name is Bernard Sinclair and he’s from Glasgow.”

“His effects identify him as Samuel Gordon.” The constable put his notebook away.

“That’s the name he was using. One of his effects would be his library card issued by this branch. Nevertheless, his true identity is Bernard Sinclair. Also, when I rolled him over, I could smell almonds. I think you’ll find he was poisoned.”

The young officer’s eyebrows practically flew off his forehead. “Poisoned? That’s rather farfetched.” He pointed at the body. “He’s older, a bit plump. You can see he was eating biscuits. No doubt that’s what smelled like almonds. I think he’ll turn out to be some bloke that had a heart attack.”

“Older? He’s younger than me!” She pulled a handkerchief out of her jumper pocket and picked up the remains of one of the biscuits. “See this? It’s walnut. It wouldn’t smell of almonds.”

“Look, Mrs….” He reached for his notebook again.

“McBrian, and it’s Miss.”

“Miss McBrian, sorry.” He glanced down at her cane. “Look, sometimes when we get older… or if we’re in poor health,” he eyed the cane again. “Sometimes it can make our mind play tricks on us or see things that aren’t there.”

“What are you talking about? I got shot. It didn’t turn me feeble-minded.”

“You? You were shot? With a gun?” The young officer gaped at her like he was waiting for the punchline. “How did that happen?”

“Yes. With a gun. I was shot whilst catching a murderer – the real murderer in the Alice Merren case. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Flustered, the young constable muttered something unintelligible and scurried off to find a supervisor.

Millie stepped closer and slipped an arm into Jean’s, giving her something to hold on to. “You’re going to make that boy need new pants if you aren’t careful.”

Before Jean could respond, an older detective approached them. “My constable tells me you have some… interesting theories about the deceased.”

From the way he stared at Jean’s leg, she knew the boy had told him more than that. “I think you’ll find the identification papers for the victim are forgeries. He may be going by the name Samuel Gordon, but his name is – was Bernard Sinclair. When I rolled him over, he was still struggling to breathe. His breath reeked of almonds; that’s a sign of cyanide poisoning. An autopsy will show for sure.”

“I’m aware of what an autopsy could show, Miss…” He glanced back at the constable who’d taken Jean’s statement.

“McBrian,” Millie said, not quite hiding the irritation in her voice. “She’s already told the constable all of this.”

The detective’s eyes dropped to their linked arms. “And you are?” He asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Mil – Camilla Harcourt. I’m a friend of Miss McBrian’s. I assisted her with the Merren case.”

“Harcourt…” His eyes widened.

“Yes. Those bloody Harcourts,” Millie said, irritated and embarrassed as she always was whenever her family connections were brought up. “A fact which has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“Yes… of course… The constable has your contact information. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.” He spun on his heel and stalked away. “You can go ahead and clean up if you’d like,” he called over his shoulder.

“So much for that.” Millie jiggled their linked arms a bit. “You know what he thinks, don’t you? Bloody pillock.”

“I do.” She pressed Millie’s arm tighter against her side. “Even if what he thinks was true, it’s no more relevant than your last name.” Jean shook her head and when she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of her disappointment. “Yet again, the police don’t see fit to listen to us.”

Millie found herself unreasonably pleased that Jean didn’t seem to be bothered by the detective’s assumption. Too bad about the rest of it. “Few things in life are guaranteed. Death. Taxes. And that the police can’t be arsed to listen to a woman.”

“The police have already decided he’s some poor bloke that had a heart attack, and they still think he’s Samuel Gordon. Bernard’s family deserves to know what happened to him.” She gave Millie’s arm one last squeeze before stepping into the aisle to start gathering books.

“And you’re positive that man isn’t who he said he was? It has been a long time.”

“I’m sure. I just can’t prove it.”

“I guess we’d best prove it then, hadn’t we?” She watched Jean struggle to gather the books off the floor. “Let me help you with those.” She dropped to her knees and started handing books up to Jean. “So where do we begin?”

Jean stacked the books on the shelves as Millie gave them to her. She’d worry about putting them in the proper order once they were all off the floor. “We need evidence. Either evidence that he died of cyanide poisoning or evidence that he’s not Samuel Gordon.” She took a handful of books from Millie. A slip of paper fluttered to the floor.

“What’s this?” Millie picked up the paper. It was a block of code. “Jean?” She held the paper up so she could see the rows of letters. “It was on the floor under the books. The police didn’t see it.”

Books momentarily forgotten, Jean studied the paper. It was covered in a grid of letters, divided into groups of three. Most had been crossed out at least once; stray letters and notes had been written in the margins. “It looks like a simple letter substitution cipher. Maybe a Caesar shift. Too bad it’s the cipher and not the solution.” Their eyes widened at once before falling on the rest of the books. Millie scrambled to pick them up, flipping through them and shaking them out as she handed them up. After a few minutes she slumped against the shelf, knees and elbows at odd angles. “It isn’t here. It must still be on the body.”

“That’s too bad, could have saved us a bit of work.” Jean dropped the last book onto the shelf. “What on earth is he doing with a cipher, though? It makes no sense.”

“It’s something to start with, at least,” Millie said, resting an elbow on her knee. “We aren’t going to get any evidence of cyanide poisoning ourselves.”

“Are you sure?” Jean pulled her handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket. She opened it up to reveal the remains of a walnut biscuit wrapped in red cello. “They didn’t seem interested.”

“Jean, you naughty girl.” She held out a hand so Jean could give her a tug up. “Tampering with police evidence. I like it.”

Planting her bad leg firmly against the base of the shelf, Jean pulled Millie to her feet. “It’s not evidence if the police don’t want it.”

Millie examined the biscuit, giving it a quick sniff before wrapping it back up and tucking it into Jean’s pocket. “Be careful with that.”

“No kidding.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the shelf opposite Millie. “We need to prove that Samuel Gordon was not Samuel Gordon. Good thing he has a library card.”

“Good thing you came back to work today.”

“I’ll get his address. Not much else I’ll be needed for today.” Now that the police had gone, the place had emptied considerably.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just leave it for the police?”

Jean shook her head. “We’re two of two for the police botching investigations.”

Millie looked pointedly at Jean’s leg. “We’re also two of two for nearly getting one of us killed.”

“Thank you for the reminder, but I hardly need it.”

At that moment, Edna raced over with a book cart, insisting that Jean leave the reshelving of the books to her. Sufficiently chastised for doing too much on her first day back, Jean gave in and left Edna to it.

“We’ll need to ring the girls.” She watched as Jean limped her way back to the circulation desk. She had a briskness about her that Millie realized she’d been missing very much indeed.

Millie jumped back as a patron dropped a stack of books on the circulation desk. She couldn’t believe that a line had formed the instant Jean had returned. They’d carted a body out not one hour ago, but a handful of people were still going about their regular business. “You book people are a macabre lot, aren’t you? Gordon isn’t even cold yet.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jean said, grinning wickedly as she pulled a hefty ring of keys from the clip on the waistband of her skirt. “Every one of those books I just checked out was a murder mystery.”

“Of course they were.” Millie watched curiously as Jean unlocked a wooden file case and began flipping through the dividers. With a pleased grunt, Jean hoisted a thick folder onto the table. Thumbing through the pages in the folder, Jean quickly found what she was after. “Here we go. Bernard’s – Samuel’s – application for a library card.” She copied down his address on the back of the cipher and tucked it into her cardigan pocket.

“Are you quite sure that’s allowed?” Millie asked as Jean put the folder away and relocked the file drawer.

“I’m quite sure it’s not. I’m also quite sure that searching his flat isn’t allowed either, but that’s where we’re headed.”

“Are you ladies sure you have the right address?” Worried eyes peered at them through the rear-view mirror. This was the third time the driver had asked. “This neighborhood… it’s no place for ladies such as yourselves.”

Jean didn’t look up; she was too busy digging in her wallet for the fare. “That’s as may be, but this is the address.”

Millie met the driver’s eyes in the mirror, letting him know she shared his misgivings. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting for us? Or coming back in about an hour?”

The taxi pulled up in front of a squalid rowhouse that had been converted into flats. The house next door to it was more a pile of rubble than a building; still, it was obviously occupied.

“Jean, are you sure?” Millie helped Jean out of the taxi. Not that Millie didn’t already know the answer. They’d gone round and round about Jean being strong enough to travel to Samuel’s flat before they’d even left the library. Millie had insisted she was perfectly capable of searching his flat on her own. Jean had insisted she could manage well enough. In the end, Jean had won. As they’d both known she would from the start.

“It’s the only way to prove he isn’t Samuel Gordon.”

“Only way to prove you’re right, you mean.”

Jean twitched an amused eyebrow. “I won’t say that’s not a boon.”

Sighing, Millie positioned herself at Jean’s side as they started the climb up the front steps. Gordon’s address listed his flat as 2C. Jean would have to climb another flight of stairs once they got inside.

The building door squealed on its hinges, only opening part of the way. They stumbled over the threshold, blinking in the sudden darkness of the building. What few windows existed were so thoroughly caked in grime they would have worked during the blackouts.

Millie balked at the olfactory onslaught that hit them as soon as they were inside. “What’s that smell?” Jean opened her mouth to answer. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Jean’s eyes adjusted to the dim hallway; she wished they hadn’t. Refuse littered the floor – old food, newspapers, a used nappy. Something green had been smeared across the wall near the door. “Let’s get on with it. The sooner we get started, the sooner we can get out of here.”

The staircase opened at the far end of the hall. Steep and narrow, Jean started to worry that maybe she wouldn’t be able to manage. Her leg had already been tested to its limits. A strong arm slipped inside hers.

“Slow and steady, darling. We’ll stop when you need to.”

Jean nodded and began the slow process of climbing – up with the good leg, drag the bad leg up behind it. Shift the weight to the bad leg and repeat. The muscles of Jean’s good thigh were burning before they’d even made it halfway. Her bad leg trembled so much whenever she put her weight on it, Millie had to keep her from falling.

But she would not be deterred.

Even as her face paled and twisted in pain, Jean’s eyes shone with determination. They reached the second-floor landing not a moment too soon. As much as she hated to touch it, Jean had to lean against the wall to catch her breath. “I hope… down… is easier.” After a moment she straightened, nodding at Millie to continue. Thank God Samuel didn’t live on the third floor.

“There’s 2C, let’s do what we came here for.”

Jean followed her down the hallway, nearly crying out in surprise when Millie grabbed her by the shoulders and hustled her into the shadows at the floor of the third-floor stairs.

“Did you hear that?” Millie whispered. “There’s someone in the flat already.” She cocked her head and tried to hear. Shaking herself loose from the iron grip Jean had on her arm, Millie crept closer to the door. She’d just reached it when something slammed inside the flat, sending her scurrying back into the shadows with Jean. “They’re speaking German,” she whispered. “I couldn’t make out much of it, but they can’t find something and they’re angry.”

“Angry that their friend was killed or angry enough to kill him?”

“We aren’t even sure that he was killed.” Millie pressed a finger to Jean’s lips, cutting off her reply. “Though this does lend credence to your theory.”

Another crash and the door flew open. A great blond bear of a man stalked into the hallway, all red-faced fury. Another man hurried after him, this one darker and smaller. He managed to look both browbeaten and commanding all at once. _Möchten Sie, dass das gesamte Gebäude uns hört?_ He pushed the larger man further into the hallway.

“ _Es muss hier sein.”_

The smaller man pulled the door closed and they headed downstairs, their voices echoing in the stairwell. Millie listened for the sound of the screeching door hinge. She’d just relaxed when Jean elbowed her in the ribs.

“What did they say?”

“Ouch!” She rubbed her side. “They said ‘do you want the entire building to hear us’ and then ‘it has to be here.’”

“Good. Did you see their hands? Empty. Whatever they wanted, they didn’t find it.” She tapped the floor with her cane. “Let’s go.”

“You just said they couldn’t find it.”

“Come on, Millie, even an old spinster like me knows men can never bloody find things.” She tried the handle. It opened easily.

“Bloo-dy hell.” Millie stopped inside the door. Chaos reigned. They’d tossed Samuel’s flat – far worse than Lizzie’s had been.

“They didn’t even try to be discreet. They knew Bernard wouldn’t be back.” Ratty cushions from the dilapidated sofa had been ripped open and the stuffing scattered across the threadbare rug. A filthy mattress had been thrown to the floor, the bedding left in a pile with the ripped pillow. The kitchen table had been flipped on its side, one of the two chairs in pieces beside it.

“That’s the crashing sound, then.” Millie set the other chair upright and motioned for Jean to have a seat.

Jean wasn’t too proud to refuse. She dropped into the chair and studied the room from the lower vantage point, while Millie shuffled through the broken glass on the floor in front of the kitchen cabinets.

“Nothing,” she said, as she pulled out each kitchen drawer and patted the underside. When she didn’t find anything, she turned to Jean and grinned. “Worked at Lizzie’s; worth a shot.”

Feeling a bit more in her salts, Jean pushed herself to her feet, trying not to let Millie see how much it hurt. “There’s a lot of fuss and bother, but no substance to it, is there?” Bernard’s smiling face stared up at her from a photograph on the floor. It was old, twenty years at least. It showed a younger Bernard standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, waving at whoever was taking the picture. Jean tucked the photo into her purse.

“That’s men for you; they leave a mess but don’t get the job done,” Millie winked. She opened the ancient ice box; it held half a loaf of bread, a couple of eggs and a tin of sardines. “Not much of a cook. Not even any ice. No ice…” She bent down and searched under the box. She found the expected drip pan, a new one, though. And large. She pulled it out. “Found something.” She lifted a metal lockbox out of the pan. She tried to open it, but the lock held firm. “We’ll have to take it with us. Keep an eye out for keys.”

“He’s clever. That’s a good sign.” Jean picked her way carefully across the floor. She moved the cushions out of her way, revealing a pile of books scattered underneath. Most of them were cheap Penguins, the sort of pulp novels you could buy at every train station or newspaper stand. Still, they were books, and she couldn’t bear to see them on the floor.

Trying not to groan, she bent over and started gathering them up. Mixed in with the paperbacks were a few hardbacks, some quite thick. She didn’t remember Bernard being much of a reader; he’d been more into sports and darts and whatever else the lads got up to that they didn’t want to tell the girls. She picked up one of the hardbacks and frowned; it was heavy – too heavy. Jean turned it over in her hands. The weight seemed to shift. She held it up to her ear and shook it; she could hear something rattling inside. It looked normal enough, though it didn’t want to open. She carried it to the window to get a bit more light. There, she spotted a tiny lever. Undoing the latch, she opened the book. Only it wasn’t a book. At least not anymore. “Clever boy.” The first thirty or so pages were normal; the rest had been hollowed out in the middle, creating a cavity just large enough to hide a few valuables. She pulled out a wristwatch and studied it. “Oh my God…”

“What is it?” Millie stepped up so she could see. “Jesus…” She stared down at an engraved _Reichsadler,_ the spreading wings of an eagle perched atop a swastika set in the face of the watch. “I hoped I’d never see one of those again.” She pulled it from Jean’s hand and put it back in its hiding place. “Let’s get out of here; this place is starting to make my skin crawl.”

Back in Jean’s kitchen at last, Millie studied the things they’d found in Gordon’s flat. Spread out on the kitchen table, it was a damning lot indeed. One or two trinkets could be written off as some sort of trophy. Millie could name several men who’d smuggled home a belt buckle, or a pocketknife or maybe a German-army issued wristwatch. One bloke even expected her to be so impressed by his stolen Nazi Luger that he’d get a leg over. He’d handled his disappointment poorly.

This, though, this was more than just war trophies. Lined up neatly across the table were a copy of _Mein Kampf_ , a lighter with the twin lightning bolts of the SS on it, a Nazi party pin, and a pocket watch engraved with Hitler’s likeness… those weren’t the sort of thing you’d lift off a dead soldier. She shifted her eyes to Jean, who was sitting ramrod straight and staring at the table. Without a word, Millie rested a hand on Jean’s shoulder in support.

“I know how it looks,” Jean said at last, “but Bernard was not a Nazi.” She pushed the pamphlets and the battered copy of _Mein Kampf_ away and began looking through the rest of the papers they’d brought from his flat. A few ticket stubs and three solved ciphers. _Suit ready at the tailor’s on Tuesday_ … _Plumber is_ _scheduled for Thursday_ and _enjoy the Friday matinee_. They made no sense. Why hide chores and appointments in a cipher?

“Maybe not,” Millie said carefully as she lowered herself into the chair next to Jean’s. “But what about Samuel Gordon?”

Jean pulled a stack of faded photographs out of an envelope and began examining each one. “With a name like Samuel Gordon? I don’t think so.”

“Now, now… remember what you pounded into our heads back at Bletchley… start with facts, not assumptions. There was an Audrey Gordon presented at court the same season I was – the Gordons were as Church of England as they come, darling, probably charter members with fat Henry.”

A stack of photographs fluttered to the table, forgotten as Jean, one hand clapped over her mouth, stared intently at one photo. “Or it isn’t Samuel Gordon,” Jean said at last. She handed the photograph to Millie. “Tell me what you see.”

Millie tilted the photo to catch the light. The photo showed a group of older boys in matching school uniforms, their arms around each other. They were all grinning proudly while the one in the middle held a large trophy. Her eyes kept coming back to one boy with dark hair and a cleft in his chin. She reached across Jean and picked up the creased photograph of Samuel Gordon that Jean had taken from his flat. Comparing the two, Millie couldn’t deny they were the same man. “It may have been a good thirty years ago, but this is definitely Gordon.” She tapped the picture of the dark-haired boy.

“And that,” Jean said, pointing at the boy holding the trophy, “is my brother Robbie. Thick as thieves those two were. Bernard was always coming round our place. I thought he might have had a bit of a crush.” She smiled fondly at the memories, tracing her fingertips over the photograph. “They’d just won the intramural cricket championship. Robbie had been so proud of them all. The other team had been favored to win. I’d come home from uni to watch him play. I had to get special permission from one of my professors to miss class.” She handed the photograph back to Millie. “Bernard Sinclair and Samuel Gordon are the same man.” Jean crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair and raised one eyebrow in challenge.

“All right. You’ve convinced me. What sort of thing would cause Bernard to change his identity to Samuel? And how did Samuel wind up dead in your library with a box full of Nazi memorabilia?”

“I don’t know, but something tells me that the answer to the first is wrapped up in the answer to the second.” Jean continued sorting through the photographs.

“Error code fourteen, then, I suppose.” Millie said. “We need to go back to clean code. Is there anyone back in Glasgow that could tell us what happened to him once he finished his schooling?”

“I suppose I could ask my mother.” The tone of Jean’s voice revealed just how little that idea appealed.

Millie was overcome by the strange sense of disassociation that washed over her whenever she thought about Jean having a mother. It felt truer somehow that Jean would have simply sprung into existence, fully grown, as an operator with the SOE. “You’ve still not told her…” Millie glanced down at Jean’s leg.

“You must be mad! Where would I even begin? ‘Hello, Mother, just wanted to ring you up and let you know I’ve taken up a new hobby of catching mad killers. Oh, and by the way, one of them shot me. Bit of a cripple now. How’re the turnips faring this year?’ She’d have a conniption.” Jean realized she’d been unconsciously rubbing her leg. “She’d want me to come home to Glasgow – to stay.”

“She wanted you to go back after the war, didn’t she?”

“Aye. And after uni and before the war and each time I visit. She doesn’t understand how her spinster daughter could possibly have anything,” she glanced at Millie, blushing slightly, “or anyone that keeps her in London.”

“If she insists, we can go for a visit, so she can see that you’re hearty and hale. But you’ll most definitely be coming back with me when the visit’s over.” They shared a glance, dopey half smiles on their faces, the case momentarily forgotten. Lost in the moment, they both nearly jumped out of their skin when Lucy opened the door.

“I’ve got it, but only for tonight. It has to be back at the morgue first thing in the morning.” She held up a thick folder.

Millie checked her watch; it was already nearly seven. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Did they do a full autopsy, then?” Jean gathered up the rest of the photographs. After a cursory glance she tucked them back into the envelope, except for the one of Bernard and Robbie. That one she slipped into the pocket of her cardigan.

“I don’t think so. The death certificate says ‘natural causes’ and was signed by the coroner. I don’t think they’ve released the body to anyone yet, though, so perhaps there’s still time.”

“Once again, the police won’t listen,” Jean huffed. As soon as the table had been cleared, Jean took the police report and left Lucy and Millie to split the coroner’s report.

Lucy took her place at the table and glanced at the empty fourth chair. “Susan?”

Pressing her lips tightly together, Millie shook her head. “Not tonight.” Susan hadn’t simply balked at the idea of investigating another mysterious death, she’d ranted at Millie for even suggesting it – calling her foolish and reckless. She berated Millie for encouraging Jean to put them at risk again. When Millie had reminded Susan that it was she herself who had reunited them to catch Malcolm Crowley, Susan had slammed the phone down.

No one said anything else about it. Jean sifted through the police report, eager to see if the slip of paper with the solution to the cipher was listed among his effects. Millie and Lucy split the coroner’s report, Lucy reading the preliminary findings while Millie went through the photographs.

“Oh my god,” Millie gasped when she saw the first photograph. Taken from the front, the photo showed Bernard lying on his back on the examination table. A patchwork of scars and discolored skin covered most of his body. Jagged lines crisscrossed his thighs; one of his nipples was missing. Near his groin, the skin took on the roughened texture of a burn.

“The report says that his…” Blushing, Lucy gestured at her lap.

“That his testicles were missing,” Millie finished, tossing the next photo onto the table. “They were.”

Jean shook her head. “Oh, Bernard… what did you get into?” She turned the picture face down. “Surely this should make the police think twice about dismissing his death as a simple heart attack?”

“None of these are recent. Wouldn’t anyone who saw them simply assume he got them in the war? They aren’t so different from the scars on Timothy’s leg, are they?” Millie put the photos back in the folder. She didn’t want to see anymore.

Lucy frowned. “When did you see Timothy’s leg?”

“Susan brought him over one night to see Jean. After a couple of fingers of whisky, they decided to compare scars.”

“He won,” Jean added matter-of-factly. “He gave me the exercises they’d prescribed for him.” She turned to Millie. “I didn’t thank you for that.”

Millie didn’t say anything. Instead, she winked and went back to studying the photographs. They worked in silence for several minutes. “That’s an odd sort of scar, isn’t it?” Millie showed Jean the photograph of Samuel – no, of Bernard’s arm. A thin rectangle of whitish flesh marred the skin of his forearm, the clean lines standing in stark contrast to the other scars on his body.

“Let me see.” Lucy took the photo. “I’ve seen a scar like that before – Mrs. Gould. She lived across the hall from Harry and me. She had one like it. She told me about it one time after Harry had…” She turned away, embarrassed.

Jean leaned across the table and placed a hand over Lucy’s. “You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve left him for brighter things and believe me, the loss is his.” She nodded encouragingly at the photo. “What did Mrs. Gould say?”

“It’s from a tattoo. She’s Jewish, you see, and she’d been in one of those horrible concentration camps. Birkenau. She said that after the war she couldn’t bear to see it there anymore. She said she couldn’t stand having this thing on her skin that reminded her every day of what they’d done to her.”

“She had it removed,” Millie said – a statement, not a question. “Wouldn’t the scar be just as much a reminder?”

“It is different, I think,” Jean said, absently massaging the muscles of her thigh. “With the tattoo she had no choice; it represented losing control of every part of her life. She chose that scar. It represents taking that control back.” After a moment spent lost in her thoughts, Jean roused herself back to the present. “It still doesn’t help us. Bernard Sinclair was as Presbyterian as they come. He wouldn’t have been in one of those camps.”

“A prisoner of war, maybe?” Lucy offered.

“It wasn’t just Jews they were putting in those camps, though, was it?” Millie asked as she pulled the box of Bernard’s mementos closer and rifled through its contents. After a moment of searching, she pulled a matchbook out of the box and studied it a moment. “I think I may have found out how Bernard wound up in a camp.” She flipped the matchbook onto the table in front of Jean. “He may have had a crush on a McBrian, Jean, but I don’t think it was you.”

Jean picked up the matchbook, warily turning it over in her fingers. “Even I’ve heard of the Eldorado,” Jean said, at last.

“I haven’t,” said Lucy. She reached for the matchbook. It didn’t look like anything special.

“It’s a – it was – a massively popular nightclub in Berlin, especially among homosexual men,” Jean explained. “It also catered to women who prefer women, transvestites, the folks who fancied both… anyone was welcome. It got so popular that even the tourists sought it out.” Millie gaped at her. “What? I’ve not been living in a cave my whole life – and I was born in this century.” She started to say more but changed her mind. Instead, she added, “We ran across it sometimes in SOE when we did backgrounds.”

“Why I’m ever surprised by the things you know. That brain of yours is practically a library on its own.” She fished in her purse for a cigarette. “I went there once, you know. I saw Marlene Dietrich perform. The Nazis shut it down a few weeks later.”

Jean let out a scandalized gasp. “You can’t have been more than a child!”

“I’d just turned fifteen. My family had gone to Berlin on holiday to visit some wealthy branch of the family. My cousin Edward and I snuck out to see the city. It was positively electric. I had my first cigarette at the Eldorado. And my first kiss.”

Jean snorted her disapproval. “It’s probably what turned you into a raving vagabond.”

“It’s probably what turned me into a lot of things.” She lit a cigarette and cleared the smoke away with an elegant wave of her hand.

Jean swallowed, loudly, before picking up the matchbook again. “A matchbook doesn’t prove he was anything more than a casual tourist – though it would explain the… falling out Robbie and Bernard seemed to have.”

Lucy took the box from Millie and examined the contents herself. She pulled out a sepia-toned postcard featuring a smiling showgirl wearing a glittering headdress. An opera-length cigarette holder rested delicately between satin-gloved fingers. “Maybe he left Glasgow for somewhere he could be himself. Or herself.”

She set the postcard down in front of Jean. It took her a moment, but once Jean noticed the cleft chin, it was unmistakably Bernard. “He didn’t get out in time. That’s how he wound up in the camps.” She tapped the postcard against the table. “But why hide now? Why create a new identity after the war?”

Millie took another drag from her cigarette. “We don’t know that he did, do we? Samuel Gordon could be the name he chose to go by in Berlin.”

“True. He’d hardly perform under his own name in a cabaret at the Eldorado.” Jean flipped the postcard over. “Sylke Schön. That would have been his stage name. Doesn’t ‘schön’ mean pretty?”

“Mm-hmm,” Millie nodded, blowing smoke over their heads. “Lovely, beautiful and the like. It doesn’t make sense that Bernard Sinclair would change his name to Samuel Gordon. If he just wanted to keep word of his new life from making it back to Scotland – a long shot at best – why not just choose another English name? Or German?”

“It wouldn’t be English,” Jean muttered under her breath.

“Scottish then… you bloody separatist. My point is that there would be no reason to create a Jewish identity in Berlin while Hitler was consolidating his power. I think he created Samuel Gordon after the war, to give him a reason for being in the camps.”

Lucy turned it over in her mind. “It does make sense, Jean.”

“It does. He’d need to be able to explain the tattoo or the scar; you can’t always cover your forearms. He’d have to have gotten that scar somewhere.” Jean placed the postcard gently back in the box. “There’s nothing else in there to give us any clue?”

There was a round of silent head shaking; the whispering crackle of the cigarette as Millie took a drag was the only sound. “That one cipher looks like a book code, but without the book, it’s useless. All we have is a box of Nazi memorabilia and a few personal mementos. Nothing to explain how he wound up with a biscuit full of cyanide in your library.”

Jean rubbed her eyes behind her glasses. “There has to be something.”

“I mean, you said it, didn’t you? He had to get that scar somewhere,” Lucy said, grinning brightly. “I don’t think you can simply waltz into hospital and ask to have something like that done. So where did he go?”

Jean squinted at the photo of Bernard’s body. “Millie? Can you?” She pointed to the magnifying glass on her desk. Millie grabbed it and leaned over Jean’s shoulder as she studied the scar. “The edges are clean, and the stitches are like the ones on my leg, small and even.”

“It doesn’t look amateurish,” Millie said, her breath warm on Jean’s neck. “Whoever did this knew what he was doing. Or she.” She stood back up but left a hand resting on Jean’s shoulder. “So, where would you get something like this done?”

“I’ve no idea, but…” Jean turned to Lucy. “Perhaps it’s time to catch up with an old friend?” Lucy frowned in confusion. “Your neighbor, Mrs. Gould. She had it done, and she was willing to talk to you about it once before. Maybe she can point us in the right direction.”

For a moment, Lucy seemed pleased with the idea, then the color drained from her face. “What if Harry is there?”

“He won’t be. We’ll see to that,” Millie assured her.

“You won’t go alone, either.” Jean insisted. She rolled her eyes at the shocked stares being directed at her. “I don’t necessarily mean me,” she said, adding under her breath, “Though I don’t necessarily _not_ mean me.” She packed the rest of Bernard’s things back into the box, save for the Nazi memorabilia. “And what about all of this? How does this fit in?” With no answer forthcoming, she added it to the box as well.

“Tomorrow, then?” Millie asked. “We’ll make sure Harry is at work.”

As she gathered her belongings, Lucy chattered nervously about going back to her old flat. Millie decided to walk her out. When she returned, Jean had started working out the cipher they’d found at the library. She’d made a clean copy and gathered a stack of notepaper. She smiled up at Millie before turning her attention back to the cipher.

CSU DJB RES VDR

CSB SRC SSJ KRC

EUD LSP SAR EPQ

TJK SXQ EPU DLE

“Starting from scratch, I see.” Millie leaned over, one hand on the kitchen table, the other on the back of Jean’s chair. “It looks like a simple substitution cipher. Could be a Caesar, maybe a rail fence.”

“Brute force then,” Jean sighed. “We’ll have to try all the combinations and hope they’re amateurs – and that there isn’t a keyword.” She gave Millie a sideways glance. “You may as well put on something comfortable and start a pot of tea.”

“Don’t you know how to show a girl a good time,” Millie laughed.

They stuck with it for the next two hours with nothing more to show for it than a stack of solutions that didn’t work. Jean called a halt to it as the clock chimed midnight and left to ready herself for bed. Millie worked her way through one more possibility before joining her.

When Millie stepped into the bedroom, she found Jean sitting on the edge of the bed, a million miles away. “Penny for your thoughts?” She sat down next to Jean and pulled out a fresh cigarette. She rolled it in her fingers for a moment before sliding it back into the pack.

“You’d be overpaying.” Jean glanced at Millie and smiled grimly. “I just don’t understand it. Is hiding a scar really reason enough to change your whole identity after the war? Why go to such extremes?”

“Same reason he had the tattoo removed, I suppose. To start over. You heard what happened to the men in Germany after they liberated the camps. Other prisoners were free to… I don’t know, start over? To try and shape some sort of life out of the ashes? But not the homosexuals. Thanks to that bloody Paragraph 175, the men who managed to survive one of those hellish camps found themselves in jail. No reparations, no state pension… just a bloody trip back to prison and your name on a list of deviant offenders. I don’t blame him for going into hiding.” Millie leaned in just enough to bring their shoulders together. It wasn’t much, but it brought a little bit of warmth to a cold conversation.

“But he wasn’t in Germany anymore, he was here.”

“The same ‘here’ that forced Alan Turing to be chemically castrated? After all he did for king and country…” Millie snorted in disgust. “I doubt I’d come back to risk similar treatment.”

“But you wouldn’t be risking it, would you? That’s what so rubbish about this whole business. Paragraph 175 doesn’t apply to women, only men. Same with our bloody laws.” Jean smacked the tip of her cane against the floorboards. “Now, you tell me, Millie, what makes Alan Turing any more of a deviant than me? He loses his freedom and his livelihood. Bernard lost his freedom, his identity… his life. What have I lost?”

“Don’t kid yourself, Jean. If we’d been in Germany during the war, we’d have been just as likely to be labeled asocials and sent to some camp – or worse. And as for jolly old England… if our MPs don’t have the imagination to think two women can get a leg over, well… I’m going to be glad of their mental failings and be glad that for once their stupid misogyny works in our favor.” She draped her arm around Jean’s shoulders, pulling her close and resting their heads together. “I am sorry about your friend, darling. We’ll find whoever did this.”

Millie lay awake a long time that night. Curled on her side with her back to Jean, she watched the shadows creep across the walls and thought about Bernard Sinclair. And Samuel Gordon. And the path that led from one to the other. She thought about herself, too, and Jean. And their path and where she hoped it was leading. Of course, Jean had been right, the rules were different for women, unfair as it may be.

Restless, Millie wanted to roll over so she could see Jean, but she didn’t dare. She forced herself to keep still instead so as not to disturb her. In truth, Millie had no practical reason to still be staying in Jean’s bedroom. At this point, Jean was more than capable of a middle-of-the-night trip to the loo. And if she were being completely honest with herself, Millie would have to admit she’d grown comfortable sharing with Jean – both the flat and the bed. Their nightly routine – Jean first in the loo, Millie second, followed by a last cup of chamomile tea and solving the crossword in the evening newspaper together while Millie brushed out Jean’s hair – had grown comfortable. It felt like home. Jean felt like home. She shifted closer to the edge of the bed; she didn’t want to do anything that might result in her finding herself back on the couch.

Still wakeful, Millie felt the bed sink as Jean rolled towards her. An arm snaked its way around her waist, and Jean’s gentle breathing warmed her shoulder. She knew she and Jean were becoming something more than friends – a fact that suited her just fine. She was reasonably sure it suited Jean as well, even if they carefully avoided talking about it. Smiling, Millie relaxed into Jean’s embrace and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a fascinating read, look up the Eldorado. It's amazing what they had before the war. And devastating to know what happened to it. 
> 
> Yes, the cipher is real. If you want to try your hand at solving it, all the information needed to do so is in this chapter (hint: there is indeed a keyword). 
> 
> Also, the German is from Google Translate. If any native speakers are shaking their head and going 'that's not how we say that' please don't hesitate to tell me.


	6. Closing in on Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following what few leads they have, Millie and Jean pull Lucy further into their investigation, forcing her to confront painful memories from her past. But Lucy is braver than she thinks - and she pushes Millie to be brave, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it to the second half of our story; thanks for sticking with it. Again, I've discussed some of the atrocities of WWII, the Holocaust and its aftereffects. I've relinked some of my sources at the end of this chapter in case you want to do some further reading.
> 
> Sparky is a champ, spending hours reading this monster out loud to make sure I sound literate. I owe her big time.

* * *

Millie awoke to the sound of Jean hissing. She rolled over to see Jean stretching her leg, her face twisted in pain. “Paying for yesterday?”

“In spades,” Jean gasped. She pulled her knee towards her chest. She could only lift it part way.

“Let me…” Millie dragged herself upright, yawning mightily. She shifted in bed so she could face Jean. “Hand me the hand cream?” She scooped a generous amount onto her fingertips, rubbing her hands together to warm it up before flicking the hem of Jean’s nightgown up with her pinky. “Can you?”

Jean pulled the hem up, revealing her scar. “It still shocks me every time I see it, like it’s somebody else’s leg.”

Millie gently slid her hands over Jean’s thigh, pressing lightly to start. “That’ll come with time. Eventually it will fade, and you’ll get used to it.” Jean’s muscles twitched beneath her fingers as she pushed on a particularly tender spot. “Try to relax. I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”

Nodding, Jean leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes. “I know you will.”

Focusing on the knots she could feel beneath Jean’s skin, Millie ran her thumbs up the middle of Jean’s thigh, her fingers squeezing along the outside. Starting at the knee, she pushed upwards in long, circular strokes, one after the other.

She pressed harder.

Jean’s skin warmed beneath her fingers, supple and soft. She shifted to kneading Jean’s muscles, continuing to trace a circular path up and down her thigh.

Jean moaned softly as the tightness in her muscles eased. “You should be charging for this…”

“I’m being well-rewarded for my efforts, darling,” Millie waited as Jean slowly opened her eyes. Holding Jean’s gaze, Millie’s hands never stopped sliding across Jean’s skin.

Jean’s breath caught in her chest. “I’m sure the pleasure is mine…” Color pinked her cheeks, but Jean didn’t break eye contact.

Millie shuddered with her next breath. “Then we’ll have to do this again.” She ran her hands the length of Jean’s thigh one last time before pulling the hem of her nightgown back into place. “I hope that helped.”

“It did,” Jean said, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

“Any time.” They were definitely headed towards something, Millie knew, a fundamental reconfiguration of their relationship. Jean had always been the most intriguing person she had ever met. Jean fascinated her – even when Millie’s heart pulled her in other directions. A taciturn nature, a penchant for tweed and steadfast competence provided little insight into the complex woman that was Jean McBrian.

The real question, at least for Millie, was whether or not Jean could see it. Judging from the raggedness of Jean’s breathing, Millie suspected she could. That conversation would keep for another time, though. “Why don’t I go make us some coffee? Scramble an egg?”

Jean leaned forward and squeezed Millie’s hand. “That sounds lovely, dearie. Thank you.”

* * *

They’d just settled into their seats on the bus when Lucy turned to Millie and spoke. “Jean’s looking well then, isn’t she?”

“She is. She could hardly move this morning – even she admits she might have overdone yesterday.” Millie checked the address again. “She’s turned a corner though, I’d say.”

Lucy nodded her agreement. “You’ve been really good for her, exactly what she needed these last few weeks.”

“That’s what Susan said – that I’m the only one as stubborn as she is.”

Lucy’s tinkling laughter filled the space between them. “True, but it’s more than that, I think. You understand her. You two have always understood each other, haven’t you? That’s why you were never scared of her back at Bletchley, while the rest of us were always on pins and needles.”

Millie considered it. “I suppose.” She grinned. “The sisterhood of the spinster.”

“You’re hardly a spinster – you certainly weren’t back then. Neither is Jean.” Lucy picked at an imaginary thread on her skirt. “Do you think you’ll stay with Jean?” she asked with careful nonchalance.

“Stay? Good grief no, we’d drive each other mad. I mean, its fine right now, needs must and all that, but… why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” A faint blush colored her cheeks. “You just seem so suited.”

Before Millie could respond, the bus reached their stop. Once they were on the sidewalk, Lucy froze, overwhelmed by the enormity of where they were.

“Is this the first time you’ve been back since we picked up your things?” Millie squeezed Lucy’s arm in support.

“It didn’t feel real then, that I was leaving for good.”

“But you did, and good riddance to bad rubbish. You deserve far better than Harry.” She bent her head close to Lucy’s. “Someone more like your Detective Ben? Who teaches you how to pick locks?”

“Millie!” Lucy let out a scandalized shriek.

Taking advantage of Lucy’s embarrassment, Millie hustled her inside before her nervousness reasserted itself. They mounted the stairs, and Lucy managed to hold herself together until they reached her old floor. Here, in the midst of her memories, Lucy’s nerves flared again. Carefully positioning herself between Lucy and the door to her old flat, Millie reached over Lucy’s shoulder and knocked on Mrs. Gould’s door. Millie started to knock again when the door opened a few inches. Two wary eyes peered out at them over a brass security chain. Suddenly, the eyes widened in recognition.

“Lucy Davis!” The eyes disappeared as the door slammed shut and after a moment of rattling with the chain, she flung the door open and her arms around Lucy. “I never expected to see you back here again. Come in, come in!” She waved Lucy inside, took one look at Millie and waved her in as well.

Mrs. Gould ushered them into a small but tidy flat. Flowers covered nearly every surface – printed on the upholstery, needlepointed onto pillows, growing in tiny pots in the window. It was relentlessly cheerful. Millie couldn’t find it in herself to be critical, though. She guessed that this woman had seen more than her share of horrors; she couldn’t fault her for surrounding herself with beautiful things.

“Would you care for some tea?”

Lucy, more at ease now that they were inside the flat, answered for them both. “That would be lovely.” They made themselves comfortable while Mrs. Gould put the kettle on. “So, what brings you back to the building,” she asked, taking the chair next to Lucy. “You aren’t… surely you aren’t reconciling with Harry, are you?” She couldn’t hide how abhorrent she found the idea.

“Oh, no…”

“We’d never let her,” Millie chimed in. She extended a hand to Mrs. Gould. “Millie Harcourt.”

“Millie took me in when… when I left Harry. We worked together during the war. Enhanced clerical.”

“I see,” she said, taking Millie’s hand with newfound approval. “Magritte Gould, but my friends call me Peggy. It’s good to have friends you can turn to in your time of need. I had friends like that when I was your age, before the war.” Dropping Millie’s hand, she fell into a silence, staring into the past before the whistling of the teakettle startled her back to the present.

With the speed and ease of long practice, Mrs. Gould handed them their tea and biscuits in record time. “What does bring you here then, Lucy?”

“We need your help,” Lucy answered, “only… I’m afraid it’s going to bring up some terrible memories and I don’t want to do that.”

“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” Millie added.

“I see.” Mrs. Gould set her cup in its saucer and placed them both on the coffee table with the utmost care. “What is it you think I can help you with?”

Lucy glanced at Millie, who nodded slightly in encouragement. “There was a man who died at the library yesterday. The police are calling it a death from natural causes, but it wasn’t, you see. Our friend,” she glanced at Millie again, “another friend… believes he was poisoned. He was also going by a false name and… there were a lot of things that didn’t add up. Our friend, her name is Jean, she knew him when they were children and… we want to help her find out what really happened to him.”

“And I fit into all of this how?”

Lucy’s eyes flickered to Mrs. Gould’s forearm. “He had a… a scar… like yours.” She closed her eyes against the flood of memories of all the scars covering his body. Only the one mattered right now.

“And you think because he’s Jewish that I’ll know who he is?” The insinuation obviously offended her.

“No!” Stuck, Lucy turned to Millie for help.

“He wasn’t Jewish. He was Scottish.” Millie shrugged. “Presbyterian, apparently.”

Somewhat placated, Mrs. Gould relaxed. “He still found himself on the wrong side of the Nazis, if he had a scar like mine.”

Lucy nodded. “When we searched his flat—”

“You searched a man’s home? Who do you think you are, Scotland Yard?”

“She is!” Millie shouted, nearly spilling her tea. “She does work for Scotland Yard!”

“Do you now?” Suddenly, Mrs. Gould was beaming with pride at Lucy again. “That is something to be proud of. I always knew that husband of yours held you back.”

“I’m only a secretary.”

“Don’t ever describe yourself as ‘only,” dear.” Mrs. Gould picked her tea up from the coffee table, taking a sip while she turned over all they’d told her. “Why are you so keen on getting involved in this? You said your friend knew him, not you. It sounds like you could find yourself in some unsavory company at the very least, a dangerous situation at the worst.”

“If the man’s death had anything to do with the scar on his arm,” Millie answered softly, “then whoever killed him can’t be allowed to go free and do it again. And even if it didn’t, his family – and our friend – still deserves to know what happened to him.”

“What about the danger? Is this friend of yours worth putting yourselves at risk?”

“Yes.” They both said at once.

“She must be something special, this Jean of yours. You’re lucky to have that sort of friend, and she’s lucky to have friends like you.” With a sigh, she rolled up her sleeve, exposing the rectangular patch of discolored flesh. Older than Samuel’s, her scar had faded to the point it almost blended in with the surrounding skin. Almost.

“I hardly even see it now. Which was the point, I suppose. Most people keep them, their tattoos. My husband refuses to even cover his up. He’s always saying, ‘I want everyone to be reminded of what they did to us.’ He hates the Nazis for what they did, but he hates the rest of the world even more. They all stood by and watched it happen.” She rolled her sleeve back down. “He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

“I’m sorry I missed him, too. How is business at the tailor shop?”

“It’s not busy at all, right now. We had a fire last week. Some problem with the wiring. He’s been at the shop at all hours trying to clean up and get it open again. The insurance company is dawdling with the check, so he and his partner are doing most of the clean-up themselves. The insurers are trying to make out like the wiring wasn’t up to standard.”

“A fire in your tailor shop?” Lucy locked eyes with Millie. “It didn’t happen on a Tuesday, did it?”

“Mmm…” she nodded while swallowing her tea. “It did. It would have been worse except the owner of the shop next door had stayed late to do inventory and noticed it right away.” She smiled indulgently at Lucy. “But you didn’t come here to talk about the shop. What do you need to know?”

Millie leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “You said most people keep the tattoos, but if you wanted to get rid of it, like you did… where would you get it done?”

“My family doctor removed mine. I was lucky in that regard. It was clean and there were painkillers. He passed away a few years ago, though. He was the only person that I knew of that would do it. He’d lost a brother in Auschwitz. He understood.” She paused, cocking her head to her side. “I’ve heard rumors about a butcher that would do it for the right price. Though… now that I think about it…” she mirrored Millie’s posture. “I believe Dr. Levin had taken on a junior partner before he passed. He may have kept up that part of the practice. I’ll make some inquiries if you’d like. Will that help you?”

Lucy rested a hand on Mrs. Gould’s knee. “If it helps us find out what happened to this man, it would be a great help.”

“Let me get you Dr. Levin’s office address. Perhaps that junior doctor is still practicing there.”

Later, waiting for the bus with the address tucked into her purse, Millie smoked a cigarette under a streetlight. “You think the fire in the tailor shop is related to that cipher, don’t you?”

“Jean always told us there was rarely such a thing as a coincidence.” 

“What were the others?”

“A plumber and a movie theatre.”

Cigarette smoke blended with the halo of mist that glowed beneath the streetlamp. “Were there any newspaper articles about any of those things?”

Lucy stared off into the darkening sky. “August 10, ‘South London Tailor Shop, Chadwick and Gould, suffered extensive damage from a fire in the late-night hours. Investigators believe the fire originated in in the electrical system. Neighboring businesses suffered minor—'”

“What about either of the others?”

“July 30, ‘Three people were injured in a fire at the Empire Cinema in Hackney. Manager John Davidson said the cause of the fire appeared to be a short in the projection equipment…’” Her eyes swam back into focus just as their bus pulled up. “I don’t remember anything about a plumber.”

“You may not have read it, or it may not have been reported.” She crushed out her cigarette before climbing on the bus. “We need to get back to the library and have a look in the papers; maybe we’ll find something out about a plumber – and we need to see who owns the Empire.”

They’d just loaded the first reel of microfilm into the reader when Jean limped in with an armload of newspapers. “We had the day, she shrugged. I just got the last two months of Thursday papers. I’d rather read them on my sofa with a drink in my hand.”

“I like how you think,” Millie said as she flipped off the microfilm machine.

* * *

Jean was sitting on her bed when Millie got out of the bath, newspapers scattered across the blanket. A tumbler of whisky balanced on her knee as the rest of her bare leg dangled off the edge of the bed. Unnoticed, Millie leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a few minutes. She couldn’t see it, but Millie had no doubt the furrow between Jean’s eyebrows that appeared whenever she concentrated would be present behind her glasses now.

Jean’s hair hung loose waves down her shoulders, still slightly damp and glistening in the lamplight. Millie gave a long, low whistle.

Jean turned, rolling her eyes. “Idle flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Millie purred, sauntering across the room. She tugged the whisky free from Jean’s hand and took a sip before handing it back. She brushed a lock of hair behind Jean’s shoulder, causing Jean to shiver and raising goosebumps over her skin. “Any luck?”

“Wh-what? Oh… no… not yet.” Jean self-consciously pulled her nightgown over her knee. “I’ve only just started though.” She blinked at the bed as if it just occurred to her that Millie might want to sleep sometime soon. “I can put it away if you’re ready to go to bed.”

“I think I’m up for a bit, if you are.” Millie circled the bed and crawled into her side, shifting over until she was sitting behind Jean and reading over her shoulder. “How far have you gotten?”

“Not far.” Jean’s voice was low, almost as husky as Millie’s. She pulled the next newspaper into her lap. Millie leaned closer, her chin practically resting on Jean’s shoulder. Jean’s hands trembled as she flipped through the pages.

“Wait! Turn back the page.” She reached across Jean and pointed to an article in the bottom corner of the page. “The automobile crash…”

Jean picked the paper up, leaning back to read it. Rather than move, Millie squeezed Jean’s waist from behind and followed along over her shoulder as Jean read the article.

_“Residents of Park Terrace were shocked yesterday afternoon when a lorry belonging to Feldman Brothers Plumbing crashed through the garden wall and into the corner of the building…”_

“That could be the plumber they were talking about,” Jean said, her voice steadier, “but it’s an automobile crash. That’s not the sort of thing you can plan in advance. Unless…”

Millie pulled the paper closer and began reading it herself.

“No injuries… significant damage… ah… look here… ‘ _Police say the driver of the lorry claimed that the brakes failed._ _‘Never had a thing happen like that before,’ said Jacob Feldman, driver of the vehicle. ‘I pumped me brakes and it was like pushing on water – no resistance at all.’ Mr. Feldman went on to claim that the vehicle had been serviced only two weeks prior.’_ That’s it then, isn’t it? I’ll wager those brakes were tampered with, Jean.”

“We need to speak with Jacob Feldman.” She folded the newspaper and separated it from the rest before gathering the others up and setting them aside. After a second’s hesitation, Jean leaned back, resting against Millie.

“Mmm… Budge up a bit,” Millie said, wincing at the speed with which Jean complied. She quickly rearranged the pillows and scooted back until she could lean comfortably against the headboard. “Come on then.” She pulled Jean back into place. “Better.” Jean relaxed against her. “Much better.”

“Feldman Brothers… I’ll wager that might be another Jewish-owned business, just like that tailor shop. I’m not sure how the cinema fits in. We’ll have to do a bit of digging on that. I wonder…” Jean flipped quickly through the rest of the paper until she found what she was looking for – an ad for the cinema. “There it is. They’re having a special reopening now that the repairs are done. Doesn’t say much else, though, unless you fancy going to see _The Desert Rats_.”

Millie wrinkled her nose. “Sounds a bit grim. Hang on though…” She reached around Jean and pointed at the advert. “It says the Empire is part of the Essoldo chain. Where have I heard about that lately?” Once again, Millie envied Lucy’s memory. “They’ve been in the papers… Oh! The Essoldo just cut a deal to distribute 20th Century Fox films. They had an article in the entertainment pages. Now I remember – it’s owned by a man named Solomon Sheckman. They made a point of it because the company name comes from his name and the names of his wife and daughter. It sounded quite romantic.”

“If you say so. Two Jewish-owned businesses suffering freak accidents might be a coincidence, but three? That’s a pattern.”

Millie sighed. “Patterns mean Susan. We need to get Susan to help if we can.”

“We’re going to have to get used to doing this sort of thing without her, you know. We’ll be on our own soon. Us and Lucy, I mean.”

“Mmm…” Millie rested a cheek against Jean’s head, debating whether she should share what Lucy had asked her. Deciding she would rather know where Jean stood, she quietly plowed ahead. “Today, on our way to see Mrs. Gould, Lucy asked me if I planned to stay here.”

“Did she now?” Jean’s voice was painstaking in its casualness. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her we’d drive each other mad.” Jean stiffened and started to pull away. “No, you don’t, darling. You’re staying right where you are.” She hugged Jean a bit tighter and waited for her to relax again. “She didn’t believe me and neither should you.”

“Our friendship… we’re changing, aren’t we?” Jean sounded both pleased and dubious. “I mean…” She waved her hand vaguely over them.

“For the better, as far as I’m concerned.” Millie couldn’t think of anything else to say. This was more discussion on the matter than she’d expected, frankly. “So… when do you want to find this Jacob Feldman?”

They spent the next hour talking about the case, chores at the flat, Millie’s job prospects and anything other than the fact that they were both immensely comfortable cuddling together in bed. Once Jean began drifting off to sleep, Millie gently tipped her over and tucked the blankets in before snuggling in close and settling in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are some of the sources I used for the story. Most of them are only the first source in a link of connected articles.
> 
> The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum www.ushmm.org  
> The Advocate, article excerpting Queer Identities and Politics in Germany: A History, 1880-1945 by Clayton J. Whisnant  
> The 1920’s Berlin Project  
> History Today  
> Back2Stonewall  
> And, of course, Wikipedia, font of all knowledge


	7. Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they work to unravel Bernard's secrets, for Millie and Jean, it's slow and steady that wins the race - both for mysteries and growing feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with it. I hope you're enjoying the ride.
> 
> Thanks always to Sparky. This wouldn't be nearly as polished if it weren't for her efforts.

* * *

_Millie looked down; she was standing in the middle of Hut 4 in only her knickers. The hut buzzed with activity, men and women scurrying in every direction. Jean was giving her an assignment, but she couldn’t quite hear. Somehow, no one had noticed that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. She edged closer to the exit. She’d just reached for the doorknob when the air raid siren began sounding. She started for the shelter, but the door wouldn’t open. It was stuck. She pulled harder, but nothing happened. The siren kept sounding and now Jean was calling her back. Why weren’t they following the protocols?_

“Millie!” Jean shook her again. “It’s the phone.” She’d try to answer it herself, but Millie had draped herself across Jean at some point during the night, effectively pinning her in place. “Come on, dearie, it’s probably Lucy. Millie!”

Millie jerked her head up, knocking into Jean’s chin. “Ow… what…” Then she heard it, the phone. She tried to push herself off of Jean, but her right arm was asleep. She dropped back onto Jean with a grunt. “All right, all right… Be still.” She tried again and managed to get her knees under her before tipping forward again. This time she caught herself with her left arm. “I’m going over, think skinny.”

“I can’t just think myself skinny!” Nonetheless, Jean did her best to press herself into the mattress. Millie hiked one leg over. “Ow! You’re on my hair!” All reflex, Jean pulled her hair out from under Millie’s hand, sending Millie careening the rest of the way over. The phone kept ringing.

Scrabbling at anything to catch her fall, the only thing Millie managed to get a hand on was the glass of water on Jean’s nightstand. She hit the floor with a thud, the water glass upended on her chest.

“Millie?”

“I’m fine.” She wiped as much water away as she could while she rolled to her feet. Racing to the phone, she knocked her elbow into the doorframe as she went. “Son of a—" She snatched the phone off its cradle. “Hello? Lucy!” She rubbed her elbow, wincing at the pins and needles that prickled her arm as the feeling returned. “Yes, I suppose I am a bit out of breath… I was in bed… What? Yes, Lucy, Jean is here.” The tap-tap-tap of Jean’s cane sounded behind her. “It’s Lucy,” she whispered.

“So, I gathered,” Jean whispered back.

“I’m sorry, what? No… We were asleep. I got tangled in the blankets…” Mille tucked the phone against her chest so she could speak to Jean. “Could you stop snickering long enough to get me a towel. I’m soaking wet.” She moved the receiver back to her ear. “Yes, I’m wet… I’m not being inappropriate. I spilled water all over myself rushing to answer the bloody phone.”

“You’re always a bit inappropriate,” Jean teased, smirking. She started dabbing at Millie’s face.

“Jean!” Millie couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “You’re a bloody menace… No, not you, Lucy… though I think you’ve been taking lessons from Jean.” She managed to pry the towel away from Jean, shooing her down the hall as far as the telephone cord would reach. “Off with you then! What? …Yes, I remember you said we were suited.” She rolled her eyes as Jean turned back to hear what she said next. Millie held Jean’s eyes as she answered, “Yes, I think we’re suited too.”

Jean’s lips twitched into a pleased half smile before she shuffled off to the loo.

Millie set a cup of coffee in front of Jean as soon as she sat down. “Marmalade? Or honey?”

“Marmalade.” Jean reached for the butter, ready to slather as soon as the slices of toast were ready. While she waited, she stirred two spoons of sugar into Millie’s cup, licking the spoon before she used it to stir a dollop of milk into hers.

“Same, please.” Millie checked the toast and decided it was done. Juggling it between her hands, she dropped the slices straight onto the table in front of Jean. “Lucy’s turned into quite the wag since going to work at Scotland Yard, don’t you think?” She retrieved the last of the gift-basket apples from the icebox and took a seat next to Jean. “She found a vandalism report from a couple of months ago. Rocks were thrown through a synagogue’s windows. She also heard from Lizzie – Alice’s case will be presented at court on Friday. Her solicitor expects the case to be dismissed.”

“That’s something, at least.” She finished spreading the marmalade on Millie’s slice of toast and handed it over. “We will go, won’t we? When she’s released?”

Her mouth full of toast, Millie nodded vigorously. “I don’t see why not,” she said once she’d swallowed. “You’re more than up to it, I’d say.”

Jean nodded and went on with her breakfast. Since her return to work, they’d developed a well-oiled morning routine, weaving in and around one another with the precision of one of Turing’s computing machines. It was all so intimately, casually, comfortable. Jean’s heart fluttered with something both familiar and brilliantly new, like reading a favorite book again for the first time in years. Jean prayed Millie felt the same way.

* * *

Millie checked the address again. Somehow, she’d missed Feldman Brothers Plumbing. She didn’t see it, but she did spot a help wanted ad in the window of a small dress shop. Her flat wasn’t too far away. The neighborhood felt safe enough, a bit rough at the edges, but then, Millie preferred things to be a little messy. She checked her watch and found she had plenty of time before she needed to pick Jean up at the library.

Inside the shop, Millie browsed the clothes. Most weren’t her style, though she saw a few things that would look lovely on Jean.

A bubbly shop girl came out from the back room. “Is there anything I can help you with? Those are lovely.” She gestured to the blouse Millie had in her hands.

“I wanted to ask about the job. Do you still have a position open?”

“Let me get Mrs. French.”

Ten minutes later and Millie was back on the sidewalk, no closer to being employed than she had been before. Not that Mrs. French hadn’t offered her the job. She’d taken one look at Millie’s height and her fashionable dress and hired her on the spot. Unfortunately, she needed someone who could start right away. Millie didn’t think she could leave Jean to her own devices just yet. She sighed and lit up a cigarette. No job, but at least she’d gotten better directions to Feldman Brothers.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here. Did you just come by to rub salt in the wound?” Jacob Feldman wasn’t a large man, but Millie could see the muscles rippling in his forearms. She wished he would put down the spanner. “We paid our premiums. It ain’t right for you to hold up our payout.” He took an aggressive step closer.

Millie pressed back against the door. “I’m not from the insurance firm, I swear. I’m not from the police or anything else. I just wanted to ask you a few questions and tell you to be careful.” She gave him the abridged version of what they knew about the other accidents.

“I told them the truck was in order.” Jacob threw the spanner into his toolbox and pulled Millie into a tiny office. He snatched a stack of papers from the desk and thrust them into her hands. “That’s the bill from the shop.” He jabbed his finger onto the invoice. “You can see right there where the brakes were part of the job. Manny’s a top-notch mechanic; he didn’t bugger it up.”

She couldn’t be sure what she was looking at, but Millie didn’t see anything out of place with the paperwork. “Could anyone else have tampered with it? Would anyone else have?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like we kept her under lock and key. We either parked her at the shop or on the street in front of my flat. Nothing to stop a bloke from diddling around with her. I told the coppers all of this, not that the knob they sent out paid any attention. You wanna know who mucked about with the brakes? Go ask Mickey Dill at Anderson Plumbing. He’s opened a new shop down the road, thinks he can come in here and scoop up all the jobs. You ask me, he’s the knob wat buggered my truck. Mickey got right stroppy when we landed a contract that they wanted. Tosser. You go talk to Mickey Dill.”

Millie thanked him for his time. Ought for two, she decided she may as well head to the library to fetch Jean. Pulling a cigarette out of her purse, Millie hailed a taxicab.

When Millie made it back to the library, her heart skipped a beat when Jean wasn’t behind the circulation desk. Before she could panic, Miller spotted her off to the side pulling expired notices off the public notice board. “Out with the old?”

“Like clockwork. The old ones come down at closing time on Wednesday. We have to make room for the new ones.”

“Does anyone have to approve the notices before they go up”

“No, but all the library workers check the board whenever they go by.” She lifted a single brow. “We have to make sure nothing inappropriate has been added.” If she had a pound for every drawing of male anatomy she’d pulled down over the years… she’d have a country estate to rival Buckingham Palace.

Millie chuckled. “Wouldn’t want that.” She studied the board and the stack of papers in Jean’s hands.

“What is it? I hear the wheels turning. You’ve thought of something.”

“Tomorrow is Thursday; that means it’s been a week since Bernard died. He was working a cipher and that means he needed a key. Where did he get that key? You said he came in regularly, maybe as often as once a week?”

“Might have been. I told you he avoided me after the first day.” She tapped the expired notices against her leg. Nothing about the notices still posted on the board jumped out at her. She handed Millie the old ones she was about to throw away. “The cipher needs a key…” Jean began pulling all the notices down. “It’s the best lead we have so far – unless Jacob Feldman was any use?”

“He’s convinced the truck was tampered with, but he’s equally sure it was a man named Mickey Dill, a competitor. They parked the truck on the street; there’s no way to be sure who sabotaged it – if anyone even did.”

“This is all we have then,” Jean waved the notices at Millie.

“Don’t forget Peggy Gould’s doctor. That leg of yours feeling up to a bit of reconnaissance?”

A slow, sly grin spread across Jean’s face. “It has been feeling a bit twinge-y, lately. I might need to see a doctor.”

* * *

“And this happened just over a fortnight ago, you say?” Dr. Goddard bent to get a closer look at Jean’s scar. “There’s still a good bit of swelling and redness, but you likely knew that already.” He straightened up and motioned for Jean to pull her skirt back into place. “Evie? Will you hand me a prescription pad, please?” The assistant, a bleach-blonde woman who looked about twelve, retrieved his pad from a drawer. “You’ve been using it more the past few days, yes?” Jean nodded. “Then the odd twinge is to be expected. I’ll give you a script for a cream that should help.” He wrote it out and handed it to Jean. “Was there anything else?”

Jean glanced at Millie. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, back. “There is, actually. You had a patient here once, a Samuel Gordon. He may have been treated by your predecessor. He had a scar…” Jean held out her arm and traced where Samuel’s scar had been. “He’d had a tattoo removed, a concen—”

“How dare you?” Dr. Goddard’s eyes narrowed and his face mottled in anger. “Did you honestly think you could come in here and ask me to violate doctor-patient confidentiality?” Jean tried to reason with him, but he shut her down. “What did you really do to your leg? Never mind. You need to leave.”

Millie tried her hand at it. “Dr. Goddard, we—”

“I said you need to leave!” He ripped the door to the examination room open. “Now!” He held the door, eyeing them furiously. “Evie! Make sure they leave.”

“Right this way,” Evie refused to meet their eyes. She led them to the exit in silence, keeping her head down the entire way. At the door she grabbed Jean’s arm. “I go on break in an hour,” she whispered. “There’s a park down the street. I’ll meet you at the gazebo.”

Millie and Jean stood on the sidewalk, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“I haven’t gotten the bum’s rush like that since that time Susan and I snuck into Colonel Hathaway’s Christmas party back at Bletchley.”

“The man did know how to throw a party.” Jean gazed wistfully into her past.

“You were invited to the Colonel’s Christmas parties?”

Jean responded with a smug waggle of her eyebrows. “We’ve almost an hour to kill. More than enough time for a coffee.”

“Or a scotch.” Millie held an elbow out, welcoming the rush of warmth that came whenever Jean slipped her hand around Millie’s arm.

The sun was nearly setting by the time they saw Evie hurrying towards the gazebo. She gratefully accepted Millie’s offer of a cigarette. She smoked half of it before she asked, “Is Sammy really dead?”

“I’m afraid so, dearie. He passed last Thursday.”

“It wasn’t natural, was it? You wouldn’t be trying to find out about ‘im otherwise.”

Jean shook her head. “No. I can’t prove it, but we think he was poisoned.”

Evie shook her head and took a shaky drag from her cigarette. “Sammy wasn’t… healthy. He suffered terrible things in the war.”

“We know. We’ve seen the photos from the aut—” An elbow to the ribs cut Jean off. “We know.”

“He was a sweet man, but… angry, too. I couldn’t blame him.” Suddenly, her eyes widened. “If you think Sammy was murdered, that mean’s someone murdered him.” Jean and Millie looked at one another. This girl didn’t miss a trick. “Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. We’re hoping to find any sort of friends of… Sammy.” Jean managed not to stumble too much over Bernard’s chosen name. “Did you ever see him outside of the office?”

Evie shook her head. “No, but he came in real regular, you know, because of all his problems.” She flicked her cigarette down the sidewalk. “He did get that tattoo removed here; only it weren’t Dr. Goddard, it was Dr. Levin. I helped him one night after hours,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“We were told that he retired some years back. The scar on Samuel’s arm didn’t look that old.” Millie lit up her own cigarette.

“He did,” Evie said, “but not all the way. He’d still treat the odd patient, even though his name weren’t on the placard. He was the one who would get rid of the tattoos. Dr. Goddard wouldn’t do it, as it’s not medically necessary, but Dr. Levin said that wounds to the spirit deserved treatment too. They had a bit of a squabble about it. I hadn’t been there more than a couple of months, then. I didn’t know what to think. When Sammy asked if he could have it done, Dr. Goddard told him no. He seemed so sad after. I put him in touch with Dr. Levin and he made arrangements to come in after hours.” She glanced at Millie’s cigarette. Millie took the hint and handed her another. “He had a friend with him, I mean, he called him his friend and all, but I wondered.”

That caught Jean’s attention. “What do you mean, you wondered?”

“It’s nothing more than idle gossip mind you, but you could tell his friend really cared about him… it were more than that, though. Blokes don’t usually touch each other, and they did – not in a romantical way, but… just more than you’d expect. He could answer Sammy’s medical questions and when they stood, they always stood real close together.” Her eyes flickered across Millie and Jean.

Jean realized that during the course of the conversation she and Millie had moved closer to each other. Out of habit now, as much as need, she’d slipped a hand into Millie’s elbow. “You think they were lovers.”

“I wouldn’t swear it, but yeah. I wasn’t going to say nothing, though. I know it ain’t legal and all, but I like – liked – Sammy. I didn’t want to see anything bad happen to him.”

“Do you remember this friend’s name?”

“Ruben? Raymond? I don’t rightly remember.” Suddenly, her eyes brightened. “He’d have a next of kin listed on his records. Could be this fella. I remember it tweren’t his mum on the papers.” She flicked her cigarette butt away. “I’d best get back to the office now.”

Jean pulled a card from her purse and gave it to Evie. “If you could check the papers and let us know the name, we’d appreciate it.”

“I will. Some people don’t take kindly to people of his sort, but Sammy was a nice man, always kind to me when he came in. He’d lived through terrible things, the like I couldn’t even imagine. He deserved to be happy.”

“Aye, that he did.”

* * *

“That’s it for me, then.” Bleary eyed, Millie tossed her last attempt at deciphering Samuel’s message into the center of the table. Jean had already finished her half.

Jean leaned back in her chair, rolling her neck and shoulders to work the kinks out. “I’m not finding anything here, either.” She’d sorted the notices into two neat stacks in the center of the table. One stack held all the recurring notices, things like meetings and regular events that went on in the area surrounding the library. The second, larger stack, was the one-time bulletins. A lost pet, a help wanted, or an offer of something for sale. A few had notes in the margins, but not many. “There’s just too many possibilities.”

Their ‘brute force’ attack on the cipher had been a long shot, but still, being no further along after days of attempts left them feeling defeated. “Maybe this friend of Samuel’s will have more information.” Millie glanced through the kitchen door towards the telephone. “If Evie ever calls.”

“She’ll call. She can’t exactly waltz back in there and rifle through the files with Goddard looming over her shoulder.” Jean noticed the lines of tension around Millie’s eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders. “You have a headache.”

“It feels like the blitzkrieg is happening all over again inside my head.”

Jean stood up and moved behind her. “Lean back.” Digging knuckles into Millie’s shoulders, she ran her thumbs up the sides of her neck.

A low moan rumbled out of Millie. She dropped her head forward. “I take it all back, every bad thought I ever had about you – you’re a bloody angel.”

“Hardly.” Jean moved her hands to the base of Millie’s skull and continued her ministrations. “I’m just returning the favor.” She told herself that it was only fair, a proper payback for all the mornings that Millie worked the stiffness out of her leg. It had nothing to do with the feeling of Millie’s hair flowing through her fingers.

Jean used her nails to lightly scratch Millie’s scalp. The only sounds were the ticking of the kitchen clock and Millie’s little hums and sighs. They both jumped when the phone rang.

“Stay here.” Jean patted Millie’s shoulder and went to answer the phone. “Maybe that’s Evie.”

Jean returned a few minutes later carrying a scrap of paper. “Rupert Wallace. She took his address down too.”

“That’s something, at least.” Millie folded and refolded Samuel’s cipher. “If he can’t help us…” She held up the folded cipher. “This won’t be much use.”

Jean studied the square of paper, cocking her head. “Let me see that.” She took the cipher from Millie and flattened it on the table. “When we found this, he’d already opened it, but…” Jean tried to picture the paper as it had been, wishing she possessed half of Lucy’s memory. “The fold marks were already there, weren’t they?”

“That’s right.” She reached over and traced the folds with a fingertip, resting her hand on Jean’s when she finished. “Those were the lines I was following.”

As much as she hated to lose the contact, Jean pulled her hand free and refolded the paper. It made a perfect square. “Where have we seen something this size?” Millie shook her head, not remembering. “Hand me the box of Samuel’s things.”

Once she had it, Jean pulled out the package of walnut cookies. Turning it over she placed the folded cipher against the cardboard square that held the biscuits. They were an exact match. “That’s how they pass along the cipher. It’s wrapped in the packaging.”

Millie pulled the cipher from Jean’s fingers and brought it to her nose, giving Jean a start. “I’m not going to lick it, Jean.” She sniffed the paper. Nothing. At this point they’d handled it too much. She opened it up again. “There are grease spots in one of the corners. I didn’t pay it any mind before, but… I think you’re right.” She handed the cipher back to Jean. “I suppose it’s something. After all, how many bakeries can there be in London?”

“Ughh…” Jean grunted and tossed the package of biscuits onto her stack of recurring notices before crossing her arms over her chest. She reminded herself that frustration was part and parcel of decryption. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if she let it get the best of her.

“Jean?” Mille leaned forward, staring at the red cellophane. “Of course, the cello!” Millie grabbed the biscuits and held it over the red and blue design on the notice. “Look, Jean, and tell me what you see.”

Adjusting her glasses, Jean held the wrapper over the page. The cellophane completely remade the image. Viewed through the cello, the red ink faded away and the blue ink, now much darker, stood out in stark contrast. “The biscuits are part of the code.”

“I never even considered…” Millie’s fingers flew as they unwrapped the biscuits.

“Careful!” Jean held out one of the other adverts as Millie tipped the biscuits out of the cellophane. Jean wrapped the biscuits up and set them aside while Millie spread the cellophane over the swirling red and blue design. Once the red cello obscured the red portions of the design, Jean leaned in and studied the newly revealed image. “There!” She pointed to a string of letters. “Dear God, no wonder he panicked.”

Millie followed Jean’s finger. “Sylke. The name he used when he performed at the Eldorado.” Shaking her head, Millie couldn’t help but feel angry for him. “After everything he’d done to leave that part of his life behind, it was all for naught. Whatever he was involved in, he’d been made.”

“Oh, Bernard… what trouble did you find?” Jean traced the hidden code for a moment before patting the table and reaching for the cipher.

“Here,” Millie handed over a pencil and notepad. Jean quickly scribbled the alphabet across the top of the page. Below that, she wrote ‘Sylke’ and then the rest of the letters of the alphabet. After that, it was short work to solve the cipher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now you have the keyword. If you want to try your hand at solving the cipher, this is your chance. The answer comes pretty much straight away in the next chapter.


	8. Unofficial Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for. As the mystery of Bernard's death is finally unraveled, Millie and Jean get pulled even deeper into the evil underside of post-war London. With little to rely on except one another, Jean's recovery is tested to its limits as, once again, she and Millie find themselves surrounded by danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book code is actually done. Unfortunately, unless everyone has the same edition, I can't really put it here for people to work out on their own. My edition is the 1952 Penguin reprint of 'The Murder at the Vicarage'. Its original 1948 Penguin printing is the 686th title in their publications. They literally were everywhere.
> 
> I owe a great deal of thanks to Sparky for this one. She was my faithful partner/guinea pig for figuring out all the codes and ciphers, dutifully sharpening her pencil for every variation.

* * *

“There you go,” Jean said, handing Millie the decryption. “Having the keyword makes all the difference.”

Millie read the solution. “‘Having tea with Agatha and the Vicar after Sunday service.’ What does that mean?” Millie asked. “You’d hardly need to encrypt tea with the vicar.”

“It’s the book code. It’s telling whoever knows to look for it which book to get. In this case, I’ll wager it’s Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie. That’s what he was trying to find when he collapsed.”

“Bloody hell, Jean. Steganography? Substitution ciphers? Book ciphers? Codes within the ciphers? They aren’t sophisticated, by any means. We hardly need a Typex or an Enigma to crack them, but… that’s the sort of redundancy we saw in the war. Whoever Samuel got mixed up with, it’s not some small-time criminal.”

“We figured that out from the cyanide, didn’t we?” Jean fiddled with the pencil in her lap. “If you think we should back off, I won’t argue. I don’t want to put you in harm’s way. Any of you,” she added quickly.

“I don’t think that I can sit by and let someone get away with murder, Jean, no matter the risk. We walked away from Crowley once and another girl died. I still think about that.” She held up a hand to forestall Jean’s protest. “Logically, I know her death was already in motion and we wouldn’t have been able to stop it. But the next one or the next… those wouldn’t have been and if we’d walked away… we’d have been giving him permission, wouldn’t we? Every new girl that followed would be on our conscience.”

“I know. It’s hard to walk away when you have the ability to help, especially when no one else seems to care. It’s why I had to help Alice,” Jean glanced down at her leg, “no matter the cost.”

Millie dropped her hand to Jean’s thigh and rubbed her thumb over the scar. “The cost matters to me, Jean. We need to be careful.”

* * *

“You’ll enjoy this one.” Jean slid the copy of _Strangers on a Train_ across the desk. “It’s much better than the film.” She wished the patron a good day and waited for her to leave. Checking to make sure there was no one headed her direction, Jean pulled out one of the library copies of The Murder at the Vicarage. By the third word of the coded message, Jean could tell that she had the wrong edition. Again. Between customers she’d already completed the cipher for each of the other two editions of the book the library possessed. This had been her last chance. They library didn’t have any different versions left. Nonetheless, she finished copying it out. Tonight, she and Millie could look over them and make sure they weren’t coded somehow – but that was a job best done on the sofa with a glass of scotch at the ready.

She glanced again at the notice board. It remained mostly empty; the updated notice for the poetry reading hadn’t been posted. Two different patrons had hung bulletins, but they’d been handmade signs for items for sale.

“Excuse me, Miss? Can you help me? I need to access the census records from 1911.”

Jean scanned the library, hoping to spot one of the other librarians. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to be available. “Of course. I’ll be right with you.” No one was anywhere near the notice board; she crossed her fingers that it would stay that way. She set the ‘Will Return Shortly’ sign on the desk and grabbed her cane. “If you’ll follow me.”

It took her longer than she anticipated to get the young man started in the public records room. She got back to the circulation desk just in time to watch Edna pin the new red and blue sign to the notice board. “Feckin’ hell,” Jean muttered as she hurried over to the notice board. Her cane echoed in the silence of the library. “Edna, dear… I was hoping to catch whoever’s been posting that particular notice. Are they still about?”

“I don’t think they were ever about,” she said, pushing the last pin into the corkboard. “Someone dropped it into the overnight drop box with a note asking us to post it.” She gestured to the bin in the corner. “I’ve just now binned the envelope. I can fetch it for you if you’d like.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, I can get it.” _So much for that_ , she thought, fishing the note out of the rubbish. She’d come back once the library closed to see if the keyword had changed. Jean didn’t know what she hoped to gain by seeing who posted the flyer. It wasn’t as if she could follow them back to their secret lair, nor was it likely that the leader would be out tacking up notices. Sighing, she went back to working the book cipher, however useless it might be.

Millie stepped into the library just before Edna flipped the sign to ‘closed.’ “Hello, Edna, darling. How goes the battle against ignorance?”

“Uphill as always,” Edna said, smiling. “Jean’s just over there.” She pointed across the room to where Jean was gathering up books that patrons had left out of place and putting them on a cart for reshelving. “She had a good day today, not too much time on her feet.”

“No doubt that’s thanks to you.” They’d come to an understanding over the past few days. Millie now considered Edna an invaluable ally in the battle to keep Jean from overdoing it at work. “I’ll see if I can pry her out of here.” She waved goodnight and hurried over to Jean.

“How did the reconnaissance mission go?” Millie asked, bussing Jean quickly on the crown of her head.

“An abject failure.” Jean pointed to the notice board. “Slipped into the overnight drop box. Edna hung it up.” She pushed the book cart to the circulation desk. “Speaking of Edna, are you two still conspiring?”

“Conspiring… such an ugly word. I like ‘cooperating’ better.” Millie grinned her cheekiest. “It’s not my fault it takes a team to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Jean collected her things. “You and the straight and narrow… that’s a pair I don’t hear often.”

“Admit it, darling, I keep things interesting.”

“Serial murderers, paranoid government administrators, men dropping dead in the library… things are interesting enough.” She locked the door and slipped a hand into Millie’s elbow in what had become their usual arm in arm posture.

As the sun set, the temperature began to drop. Jean didn’t mind, though. Millie felt warm against her side. Not in any hurry, they stopped to peer into shop windows and listen to a street musician. Jean dropped a few shillings into his tip jar. The breeze picked up, sending a page of newsprint blowing down the street.

“I picked up a map of the city,” Millie said as they passed an alleyway. “We can look for any bakeries between Samuel’s flat and the library. The bis—”

A dark form crashed into them, knocking them both into the alley. The force of it sent Jean sprawling onto the pavement. Millie tried to push their attacker away, but he ducked beneath her swing and rammed her into the wall. Her head snapped back, striking the brick so hard she saw stars.

“You need to mind your business! Do you hear me?” He slammed Millie against the wall again. “Stay away before you get hurt!”

Behind him, Jean managed to climb to her feet unnoticed. Spinning her cane in her hands, she swung with all her might, the brass ball of the handle connected solidly with his head. Stunned, he staggered sideways, trying to pull Millie in front of him like a shield. Jean swung again, this time a solid proper golf swing aimed directly at his ankles. When she connected, Jean knew she’d done Scotland’s national game proud. He dropped to the ground, landing hard on his shoulder. Roaring in anger and pain, he rolled to his hands and knees. Jean swung again, breaking her cane but dropping him.

Sucking in ragged gulps of air, Jean rushed to see to Millie, who was currently leaning against the wall, watching Jean with a dazed expression. “You really middled that one, didn’t you?”

“Two brothers. I played a lot of cricket.” Jean ran her hands over Millie’s head and face, frantically checking to see that she was all right. “Where are you hurt?”

Millie blinked, trying to force her eyes back into focus. “It’s all right, Jean. I’m not hurt.” Jean’s fingers never stopped flying over Millie’s body. Finally, Millie grabbed Jean’s hands, holding them against her chest until Jean calmed enough to hear her. “I’m all right, just a little bump on the head.” Pulling a hand free, Jean immediately buried her fingers in Millie’s hair, lightly searching her scalp until she found the beginnings of a lump. Her hand came away smeared with blood. “Millie?”

“It’s just a little cut. I promise, there’s no real harm done, darling.” Millie pulled Jean into a hug.

“Are you sure?” Millie nodded and Jean’s panic began to recede. “How could anything happen with Jean McBrian looking out for me? England should be scouting you.” She felt Jean smile against her shoulder. “What about you? You took quite the spill.”

“Don’t you go worrying about me, dearie. I’m fine.” Jean winced as she shifted. Now that the adrenalin was wearing off, the throbbing in her leg was getting worse by the second.

“Come on, love. Let’s see who this fool is before he wakes up.” Trying not to sway too much, Millie left Jean leaning against the wall and went to check on their assailant. She bent over the man on the ground and surreptitiously checked him for a pulse. The last thing they needed was for Jean to have accidentally killed the man – though she could certainly argue self-defense. Millie patted down his jacket, feeling the rectangular bulge of a wallet inside. She pulled it free and handed it to Jean and then kept rifling through the rest of his pockets. He’d just started to stir as she pulled a folded envelope from his front trouser pocket.

“It’s Rupert Wallace.” Jean held out his identification card to Millie before slipping it back into his wallet and tucking the whole thing into her purse. “Evie must have told him we were asking about him.”

“Unghhh…” Rupert groaned as his eyes fluttered open.

Millie grabbed one of the broken ends of Jean’s cane and pressed it against his throat. “Why were you following us?” Rupert didn’t answer. He just clutched his head and groaned. Millie grabbed his collar and gave him a hard shake, causing him to groan louder. “Why did you attack us?”

Rupert started to cry. Hard. Blubbering and apologizing, he grabbed Millie’s hands. As best Millie could understand between sobs, Evie had called him and told him two women were asking about Sammy. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted to scare you away before something terrible happens. You have to believe me. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

Millie turned to face Jean. Their eyes jockeyed back and forth in silent conversation with each other across his blubbering body. Finally, Millie rolled her eyes, giving in to Jean’s decision.

“Get up, Mr. Wallace. We need to get out of here.” Jean scanned the entrance to the alley. No one was paying them any mind. “We’ll talk things over when we get back to my flat.”

Millie helped him sit up. He gingerly fingered the back of his head, flinching when he pressed against the bloody knot just behind his ear. He cautiously accepted the offer of Jean’s handkerchief.

“I can’t. It’s not safe. You know what happened to Sammy.”

“You’re injured,” Jean reminded him. “We need to see to that head of yours. Plus, we need information.”

“Besides,” Millie added, “you broke Jean’s stick, it’s your duty to help us get home.”

“I broke it? Bloody hell, she’s the one who walloped me!”

“Because you attacked us!” Jean cried, indignantly. 

Reluctantly, Rupert agreed. Millie helped him climb unsteadily to his feet, ignoring her own wave of dizziness. She threaded her arm with Jean’s, as much for her own good as for making up for Jean’s broken cane. Rupert took up a position on the other side, wisely letting Jean manage herself, but ready to catch her if she faltered. As they hobbled their way down the street searching for a taxi, no one noticed the man standing in the shadows at the other end of the street.

“The kitchen is right through there.” Jean hung up their coats while Millie went to fetch the first aid kit. “Let’s take care of those wounds.” She directed Rupert to have a seat. He stared at all the clues and ciphers that were sorted into piles across the kitchen table, turning one stack so he could get a better look. “Now then, those are in order.” Jean quickly began clearing them away. She’d just stuffed the last stack into their folder when Millie returned with the first aid kit and Jean’s crutches.

“You may as well stop scowling, Jean. This is all we have until we can get you a new stick. I’ll get a new one straight away tomorrow, but for now, you’ll have to make do.”

Jean pursed her lips and huffed a bit, but as much as she hated to admit it, Millie had a point. She wasn’t steady enough to do without. “Hand them over and sit. I want to check that head of yours.”

Millie started to argue that Jean needn’t bother, but she held her tongue. If Jean could accept the crutches, she could tolerate Jean fussing over her for a few minutes. Besides, she was still getting the odd wave of dizziness; sitting down sounded like a good idea. “You can start with Rupert.”

“Rupert can wait.” Jean moved behind Millie, gently parting her hair and examining the lump on the back of her head. “It’s a little scraped from the brick wall, but not bleeding. You’ve got quite the goose egg, though.” She ran a flannel under the tap, wrung it out and pressed it to Millie’s head, riffling her fingers through Millie’s hair before turning to Rupert. “Tip your head down.” Jean tended his wounds but was none too gentle about it. Rupert winced and hissed throughout her ministrations but wisely said nothing. The moment she finished, Rupert excused himself to the loo.

“You enjoyed that,” Millie chuckled once he’d left the room.

“Immensely.”

Millie pushed herself to her feet and motioned for Jean to take her place. “Your turn.” While Jean waited, Millie cut a piece of gauze and poured some gin on it. Kneeling in front of Jean, she lifted her skirt enough to reveal a skinned knee. She swabbed it clean with the gin, blowing to cool the burn as Jean sucked in air through her teeth. Once the burning subsided, Jean relaxed. “Hands, then.” Jean held her hands out. She’d scraped her right palm, so Millie cleaned that too. Once she finished, Millie placed a quick kiss on Jean’s palm.

Jean tangled their fingers together. “Thank you.” Their eyes met and held. Jean leaned forward, slowly, her mouth turning to dust when she saw Millie lick her lips.

Whatever mood was building evaporated with the sound of Rupert’s footsteps in the hallway. Millie rushed to her feet, grabbing the counter until the room quit spinning. “I’ll make some tea,” she said, her voice raspier than usual.

“Rupert Wallace.” Jean pushed the chair out with her foot. “Sit. Tell me what Bernard’s been up to, and why you attacked us in an alley like some common thug.”

He lowered himself into the chair. “I’m sorry.” Rupert planted his elbows on the table, wringing his hands together. “I didn’t mean to push you down,” he said. “I – I only meant to scare you off.”

“Hardly.” The kettle whistled and Millie poured steaming water into a cup and set it down in front of Rupert. She did the same with Jean’s but added a nip of the gin before handing it over. “We’ve been up against worse.”

“I’m not so sure.” Rupert stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea. “They murdered Sammy, I’m sure of it. I don’t know how, but… Sammy survived for years in places like Neuengamme and Sachsenhausen and Auschwitz. I don’t care what the bloody coppers say. Sammy didn’t drop dead of some heart attack in a library. Bloody fool even saw it coming.”

Jean leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”

“The day after… after he died, he got a letter. One he’d posted to himself. It was full of gibberish. Random letters, crazy theories. He sounded like a madman.”

Millie straightened at once. “You don’t happen to have that letter, do you?”

“I burned it. I never wanted to see it again.” His eyes cut away, embarrassed. “That was a stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“It could have been useful.” Millie couldn’t quite keep the disappointment from her voice. “But I understand.”

“You are right, though,” Jean said, “Bernard didn’t die of a heart attack.” She cast her eyes over to Millie, who simply shrugged. What harm could there be in sharing? “They poisoned him. Cyanide. I can’t prove it, but I was there when he died. I could smell it, but the police didn’t believe me. According to the coroner’s report, they didn’t do any sort of tests on his blood. Could you make some sort of request?”

Rupert shook his head. “Not without legal standing.” Tears filled his eyes. “I told him to leave it be. We had a good life, but he couldn’t let it go.” He spoke through clenched teeth, his hands gripping the teacup so hard they shook. “Everything was fine until he saw that bastard. I knew it upset him, but I had no idea he’d lost the plot the way he did.”

“Who did he see?”

“Ernst Weber – though he’s going by the name of August Anders here. He was a guard at Sachsenhausen. Nasty one, too.” He laughed, bitter and harsh. “Like all the damnable Nazis weren’t nasty. It always ate at him, though, the way they let all those animals go home after only a couple of years after the war ended.”

He told them what Samuel had been up to, at the parts he’d been aware of. Rupert had been shocked to learn that Sammy had taken a separate flat. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Once he found Weber, he got more and more obsessed. He started following him, convinced that there had to be more of them. Sammy called them a nest of vermin and said they needed to be eradicated. He bought Nazi war souvenirs on the black market so he could blend in. Two weeks ago, he came home, frothing like some sort of madman, claiming he’d found them all and he was going to make them all pay for they’d done. I called him a bloody git and told him to just take it to the police, or MI6.” He started crying. “Every time he brought it up, I tried to talk him out of it. He just quit talking to me altogether. To say it caused something of a rift would be selling it short. I should have just listened.”

“This wasn’t your fault.” Jean’s voice softened. “If Bernard was as obsessed as you say, there’s nothing you could have said that would have stopped him.”

“You keep calling him Bernard. How do you know that name?” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “If you asked Sammy, he’d tell you Bernard’s been dead for years.”

“We grew up together, back in Glasgow. He and my brother, Robbie, were mates.”

“Robbie? Robert McBrian?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The whole bloody world and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with the sainted Robbie’s sister. Fuck me.”

That got Jean’s back up. Millie managed to clap a hand on her shoulder before she could respond. “Sounds like there’s a story there. Why don’t we go to the sitting room and you can tell us?”

“All right.” Rupert pushed his teacup towards Millie. “Best fill it up again – this time you can skip the tea and just use the gin you don’t think I saw you add to hers.”

They’d left the light in the sitting room dim; it suited the tenor of the evening. No one spoke; the silence lay over them like a blanket, warm but suffocating, too. Millie couldn’t tell how long they sat. Rupert sprawled in the chair; his teacup abandoned in the kitchen. A tumbler of whisky dangled from his fingers instead. Jean and Millie had taken up their usual spots on the sofa, Millie’s arm draped across the back. Her fingers were so close to the back of Jean’s neck she could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. With every tick of the clock Millie wanted to touch her a little bit more. Finally, she gave in, shifting her arm just enough to rest her fingertips on Jean’s shoulder. Her heart skipped in her chest when Jean leaned into her. Now she was content to wait as long as it took for Rupert to tell his story.

“I loved him, for all the good it did me,” he said at last. “We met before the Nazis locked down Berlin. Then they moved in and everyone scattered. I still don’t know why he didn’t just run.” Rupert gazed into the unlit fireplace. “I think he fancied himself some sort of resistance fighter. Maybe he was…”

“He never told you how he wound up in a camp?”

Rupert shook his head. “He just said they got sold out by someone he trusted. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him again. He’d come back to Berlin to find out what had happened to me. I went back hoping to find him. You wouldn’t believe the things those animals did to him.”

“We saw photographs. He endured a great deal of suffering.” Millie tried to push the memories of the autopsy photos away.

“He was a brave man,” Jean added.

Rupert snorted in derision. “He’d say he simply endured because he was a coward. Too afraid to die. That was the worst of it. Sammy was a pipefitter, you see, useful to the Nazis. That’s how he wound up at so many different camps. They forced him to build their bloody death machines. He had this ridiculous notion that if he’d just… done something to get himself killed they’d stop building the gas chambers.”

Millie disagreed. “They’d have just found another pipefitter. It wouldn’t have changed anything. He’d just be dead, too.”

“I spent years trying to convince him of that. Never worked.”

“How did he wind up going by Samuel Gordon?” Jean asked.

“Bit of bad luck for one of his mates in Sachsenhausen, paired with a bit of quick thinking on his part. Sammy said that when they liberated the camp, it was chaos – prisoners fleeing, guards fleeing, people in desperate need of medical attention. Through it all, Sammy said he noticed the other homosexuals were being segregated from the rest of the prisoners. He overheard one of the local officials mention the 175ers. That’s the law that—”

“We know what it is. It meant that homosexuals liberated from the camps often found themselves in a German prison next.” Millie couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. The cruelty of it sickened her.

“Then you understand why he changed his name. There’d been a man in his barracks who’d died during the night. In the pandemonium, the guards just left him in his bunk. Samuel took his shirt and traded in his pink triangle for a yellow star. Kept him out of the nick. It let us go on and have our life back, such as it was.” Rupert drained another tumbler of Jean’s whisky and pointed at her with the empty glass. “I know who you are, you know. You’re the sister of the sainted Robert McBrian, the bloody ‘other man.’”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Jean kept her voice mild, but Millie could tell her hackles were up. She brushed the backs of her fingers against Jean’s neck.

“Robbie and Bernard. Did you know they were lovers?”

“I suspected.” And she had, she realized, even way back then. They’d simply seemed to fit. Much like she and Millie did now.

“They were. Worse – for me, anyway – Robbie was ‘the one that got away.’ Bernard never forgave him for joining the military. It was the one place Sammy couldn’t follow, you see. Then he went and got himself killed.”

“He chose his duty over Bernard,” Jean answered. It was a choice she could understand.

“You Scots and your bloody duty. Do you know how it feels to be constantly compared to the one great love of someone’s life? And to always be found wanting?”

Jean couldn’t stop her eyes from flickering to Millie. “I’ve some idea,” she said, at last. Millie turned away, covering her mouth with her fist.

“Your precious brother hung like a shadow over everything, even the years we were happy. It was like Bernard had another lover, but I couldn’t even fight for him. How do you fight a ghost?”

“I’m sure Bernard loved you,” Millie said. She was speaking to Rupert, but her eyes never left Jean. “The fact that he loved someone else once doesn’t mean he can’t love you. Sometimes… the right person comes along and makes you realize that what you thought was love was really an infatuation. It might be the crackling flames of a fire that attract your attention, but they’ll burn you like as not. It’s the quiet, steady coals that keep you warm.” She pulled her eyes away from Jean and back to Rupert. “You can’t get the coals until the flames have burned themselves out.”

“The coals will still burn you just as bad,” Rupert argued, draining the last of his whisky.

“If you’re careless,” Millie agreed.

Rupert’s mood didn’t improve with the current topic of conversation; Millie didn’t blame him. He kept waving the tumbler in the air, expecting one of them to fill it. They didn’t. The longer he talked, the more agitated he became, grilling them about Samuel and what he’d been doing and how they planned to find the bastards that killed him. He kept threatening revenge. Millie sympathized, but it didn’t stop her from being glad they didn’t have anything to tell him.

“Did Bernard mention any bakeries lately?” Jean asked out of the blue. It knocked Rupert completely out of his rant.

“Now you mention it, he kept going on about bakeries. Kept bringing bread and pastries home whether we needed anything or not.” He stared at her, confused. “He’d been so peculiar lately, visiting bakeries all over the city for a while, bringing home all sorts of loaves and biscuits and pies. Then all of a sudden he was only going to one all the time.”

“Do he ever tell you the name of it?”

“Nah… But I think it was somewhere not too far from that library of yours. Why? Does that have something to do with why Sammy died?”

“We think so.” Jean reached for the crutches, but Millie helped pull her to her feet instead. “Why don’t you sleep on the sofa? You’re in no fit condition to leave.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” Rupert cast a glance into the kitchen.

“It’s no bother. Millie, will you get Mr. Wallace some blankets?” She turned back to Rupert. “If you’d do me a favor and carry the cups into the kitchen, I’ll tidy up.” She hoisted the crutches. “My hands are a bit full.”

Millie departed to get the linens while Rupert helped Jean gather the cups. Back in the kitchen, Jean slid the folder further down the counter so it wouldn’t get wet while she washed the dishes. “Bread is in the cupboard over the toaster. Marmalade is in the icebox. Some bread to soak up that whisky wouldn’t be amiss.”

Returning with her arms full of bedding, Millie recruited Rupert to help make up the sofa while Jean finished in the kitchen. He’d no sooner dropped onto the sofa than he was snoring soundly. Sighing, Millie pulled his shoes off and draped a blanket over him.

Millie lingered in the doorway. “Do you—” Jean jumped about a foot and dropped the hem of her nightgown like she’d just gotten caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. “Jean? What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. What were you saying?”

“You’re a terrible liar, Jean McBrian. Spill it.” She stepped closer. Jean tried to smooth her face into a blankly innocent expression, but she couldn’t keep her hand from sliding across her hip. “Busted.” Millie pointed at Jean’s hip. “What did you do?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Millie stepped even closer, until she stood only inches from Jean. “That sounds just as convincing as ‘clerical work,’” she purred. “Let me see.”

With a roll of her eyes, Jean lifted the hem of her nightgown, revealing a huge, purpling bruise on her hip. “It’s just a bruise.”

“Hell of a big one. You’ll feel that tomorrow.” Mille squatted down to get a better look, balancing herself with one hand on Jean’s thigh. With the tip of her finger, she pulled the waist of Jean’s white cotton knickers down just a smidge. “It goes all the way up.” She snapped the elastic before she stood up, just for good measure.

“I’m feeling it now.” Jean sighed. “There’s nothing to do for it.” She hobbled to the bed and handed Millie her crutches before sitting down. Millie leaned them against the wall and crawled in on the other side. “What were you going to ask me? Before, when you first came in?”

“Oh! I was going to ask if we should leave the door open so we can hear if Rupert starts mucking about.”

“I don’t fancy getting peeped at while we’re sleeping.”

“Nor I.” Millie fluffed her pillow behind her back and leaned against the headboard. Rather than lie down, Jean leaned next to her, their shoulders resting against each other. “I don’t trust him. I can’t exactly put my finger on why, but I don’t.”

“I know why.” Jean shifted into a more comfortable position. Millie freed her right arm free and pulled Jean against her, tucking her in close. “He’s dangerous. Not so much because he wants to hurt us, but because he’s in so much pain. He’s angry. Losing Sammy is making him reckless, and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

“I understand how he feels.” She traced Jean’s scar with her other hand. “I think losing you would make me very reckless, indeed.” She kissed the top of Jean’s head, wondering if she’d ever work up the nerve to kiss her properly.

“Me, too.” Jean slipped an arm across Millie’s waist. “Me, too.” Her voice had already turned fuzzy with sleep.

“And Jean? Just to be clear, I have never, not even once, found you wanting.” A slight squeeze was the only sign Jean heard her.

* * *

“He’s gone.” Millie threw the empty folder on the table in front of Jean. “All our information is gone, too. I can’t believe we were so stupid to leave it where he could find it.”

Jean leaned the blasted crutch against the counter and started filling the kettle. “It’s too early…” She smothered a yawn and pointed to the rubbish bin in the corner. “Check the bin, dearie.”

“Wh—” Millie picked up the bin, it was full of all of their scratch paper and failed… wait. She bent closer. This wasn’t the rubbish; it was all of their data. “You binned it?”

The corner of Jean’s mouth quirked into a smug grin. “His eyes kept wandering to the folder: even when we were in the other room he kept looking back in here. You know me and my suspicious nature. When I tidied up the kitchen last night, I decided to put our actual work someplace safe. I just swapped our failed decryptions and the old notices that we’d already binned for the new ones. That seemed the quickest way to hide our information without him noticing. We’ll need to keep them hidden from now on.”

“Clever girl!” On impulse Millie flung her arms around Jean. “I could kiss you and that suspicious nature of yours.” Realizing she was in the perfect position to do just that, Millie backed away, embarrassed.

Jean laughed out loud at that. “You could kiss me? _Could?_ For heaven’s sake, you’ve been having a torrid affair with the top of my head for weeks!”


	9. Good Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with enemies they'd believed long-vanquished, Millie and Jean know it's up to them to expose Bernard's killers. But as they start to face their feelings, they worry that the price could be too high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tossed a tiny '1776' Easter egg in here, as is tradition. There's another one here somewhere, but I don't remember where. Happy hunting! 
> 
> Once again, if Google Translate has butchered the German language, please let me know.
> 
> Many thanks to Sparky for giving up her Saturday to proof this monster.

* * *

“This has to be it.” Jean checked the address again. Bavarian Baked Goods. The shop had been built with the same dingy brick found all across London, but the signage had all been painted to evoke the Black Forrest. “It’s all a bit Hansel and Gretel, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been here. The rye bread I bought last week came from here.”

“Good. You’ll be familiar.” Jean took Millie’s offered elbow as she stepped up into the store. Two steps in and they were enveloped by the warm smell of fresh bread. “I can’t believe I’ve never shopped here,” Jean said, admiring the trays of sourdoughs and pumpernickels. She picked up a small basket and began browsing. “Hand me another loaf of that rye.”

Millie turned to grab one and froze. Recovering quickly, she snatched a loaf from the tray and stepped closer to Jean. “Do you see that man restocking the crumpets? The big one.” Jean leaned over to look past Millie’s shoulder, but Millie leaned in front of her. “Don’t be obvious about it,” she whispered. Jean rolled her eyes and pushed Millie aside.

“You aren’t likely to overlook him.” Jean studied the man while she pretended to look at a tray of muffins. She’d seen him before. The way he moved, held his head, it all pricked something in her memory, but she just couldn’t place— “He was one of the men in Bernard’s flat,” she said under her breath. Out of place in the bakery, the beefy man looked better suited to butchering or masonry. Jean wove through the customers, new cane tapping on the stone floor.

Millie watched, heart thudding in her chest as Jean chatted him up about the crumpets. She remembered how only a few days ago Jean sat on her sofa, crying over a crisis of confidence. She couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. Jean would be fine, bloody leg be damned. She was still watching Jean when an errant basket knocked her back to the present. Shooting a nasty look behind her, she spotted it – another red cellophane wrapped packet of biscuits. They were sticking out of the basket that had slammed into her hip. She checked on Jean, who was laughing at something the man had said, one hand on his bicep. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, to no one in particular. Scanning the shelves and trays, she spotted a small bowl of the biscuits near the register. Edging closer to the back of the shop, Millie positioned herself to catch Jean’s eye. “The biscuits.” She mouthed, gesturing with a jerk of her head. Jean nodded and continued shopping. “What are you doing?” Millie whispered, trailing after her through the shop.

Jean frowned at Millie as though it should be obvious. “We needed to go to market. Two birds, one stone.” She stopped near a display of pies. “I think I fancy a pie… Pork? Or would you rather have a steak and ale?” She examined one of each, turning them this way and that, checking the crusts carefully.

Millie felt ready to burst with impatience. She opened her mouth to speak, but Jean cut her off with a hand on her forearm and a glance to the register. A man was waiting for the shop girl, a package of the biscuits in each hand.

The girl smiled up at him. “Sorry for the wait.” She glanced at the biscuits in his hands. “Ah… the walnut Lebkuchen, traditional German Christmas cookies. _Das ist einer meiner favoriten.”_ Millie’s eyes flew open. She started to turn and look, but Jean held her fast.

“Yes, please. _Ich habe während des Krieges einen Geschmack für sie entwickelt_.”

“Sorry, love, I don’t really speak the language.” Smiling brightly, the shop girl took his selections and started wrapping them up.

“I developed a taste for them during the war,” the man said, smiling back.

The shopgirl moved so quickly that Jean almost missed it. Almost. “Aren’t you a crafty little thing,” Jean murmured, not taking her eyes off the girl. “She switched the packages. He bought two. She dropped one back in the bowl and replaced it with one from under the counter.” Jean went back to studying the pies while the man paid. Purchase completed, he brushed past them on his way out of the store. “Pork or steak?”

“Wh- what?”

Jean huffed and added the pork pie to her basket. “Anything else?” Millie’s mind struggled to catch up with Jean’s. This was the Jean she remembered from Bletchley, juggling a dozen lines of reasoning at once. Because Jean didn’t focus on cracking codes, some of the girls dismissed her as little more than an officious paper-pusher. Millie knew better. Had always known better. On her first day at Bletchley, she’d been witness to Jean McBrian’s intellect – and fierceness – on full display after some wet-behind-the-ears mathematician had made the mistake of talking down to one of her girls. He’d been near tears by the time Jean had finished with him. “Well?” Jean sounded properly vexed now.

“Ah… Some crumpets?”

Jean patted the basket. “Already done. Let’s go. I want to stop at the greengrocer before we go home.”

 _Home_ , Millie thought, knowing that Jean’s flat was rapidly becoming home to her. Jean was becoming home to her.

“Millie?”

Jolted out of her reverie, Millie found Jean watching her curiously. Millie could feel the goofy grin on her face; no telling what Jean imagined she might be thinking. “Uh… I could do with a salad.”

Jean gazed at her a moment longer, studying her with a bemused smile of her own. She stepped around Millie, trailing her hand down Millie’s arm as she passed. Back to business, Jean placed her basket on the counter. “I could do with a pick-me-up before our next stop.” She made a show of scanning the options before ‘spotting’ the cello-wrapped biscuits. “Let’s add a couple of those,” she said, pointing to the biscuits. She waited as the girl wrapped everything up. “Oh!” Jean started, just as the girl began ringing up their total. “I can’t believe I almost forgot the scones!”

Jean shot Millie a look before turning and hurrying to the tray of scones. She went so quickly she lost her balance, knocking into a rack of sourdough. “Oh no!”

The shop girl hurried away from the counter to see about Jean. Millie took the opportunity to duck behind the counter and swap one of their packages of biscuits for one of those. She’d just stepped back when the beefy man Jean had been talking to returned from the kitchens.

He grabbed her arm. “What’s going on out here?”

“Hello! Perfect! Do you see my earring back there? I just felt it come off, but I didn’t hear it fall.” She glanced back towards Jean and the shop girl. “Too much commotion I suppose. She’s a bloody menace with that stick.” He glared at her before watching Jean hobble back to the register.

“Don’t you worry a bit, dearie. It happens all the time since the accident.” She cast a sad glance at Millie. “It’s a wonder we’re still friends, you know, after she ran me over with her car.”

Millie’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head ever so slightly. “A wonder.”

“ _She was behind the counter_ ,” he said in German, though his tone and expression were friendly.

“Ah!” Millie bent beside the counter rising quickly and holding up her earring in triumph. “I was afraid I’d lost it for good!” She fastened it back to her ear while Jean paid. Once outside, Millie lit up a cigarette. She blew a thin steam of smoke over their heads. “He saw me behind the counter.”

“I gathered as much. It should have been me making the switch. You’re too glamorous to go unnoticed – unlike me.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Jean. You managed to catch my attention well enough.” They watched the bakery while Millie finished her cigarette. Millie smiled, pleased with the red tinge creeping up Jean’s cheeks. The beefy man stepped out of the doorway with the smaller, dark-haired man from Samuel’s flat; he pointed them out to his companion. “Smile and wave, Jean. Flirt with him.”

“Flirt? You’re the one who should be flirting. He’s not interested in me.” Nonetheless, she smiled and waved.

“You were the one that flirted with him in the store.”

“I most certainly did not. I fawned over him. There’s a difference. Young men love it when old women fawn over them.”

Millie crushed her cigarette into the sidewalk. “And all men love it when a beautiful woman fawns over them.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I’m not an idle flatterer, darling, I mean what I say.” She held out an elbow for Jean to take. Once Jean had slipped her arm through, Millie leaned down and purred, “And as far as not getting me anywhere… I _am_ already in your bed.” Jean gasped so hard she choked, sending Millie into a fit of amusement, her laughter pealing down the street.

Shifting the bag to her other hand, Millie checked on Jean out of the corner of her eye. If she’d expected they would rush right back to Jean’s flat to unwrap the biscuits, she’d been sadly mistaken. True to her word, Jean had taken them to the greengrocers, the butcher, and the general mercantile, insisting that if they were going to be out, they may as well get the shopping done. Besides, she’d whispered later, what better way to make the Nazi bakers believe they were just two women doing the weekly shopping than by _being_ two women doing their weekly shopping.

At this point, Millie had to agree. Anyone following them would have been bored out of their minds by now. She was in a bit of a stupor herself.

“Is there anything else?” Jean asked, suddenly at her elbow. “I think my leg is going to have something to say about all these errands.”

“I’ll draw you a bath when we get home.” Home. That word again. Jean looped her arm through Millie’s as they turned towards the flat. Towards home. Ahead, Millie spotted a bus stop with a newsstand beside it. “I know it’s only a couple of stops, but how about we hitch a ride? Give that leg of yours a rest.” Jean nodded and they crossed the street. They’d almost reached the stop when Millie saw it, freezing in her tracks in the middle of the lane.

“What?” Jean tugged at her arm, “At least get out of the roadway.”

“Bloody hell, we’ve been so stupid.” Millie grabbed Jean’s hand and hurried her across the street.

“Apparently, I’m still being stupid,” Jean said drily, “because I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“You cracked the code, darling. Murder at the Vicarage is the right book. We just don’t have the right edition.” She pulled Jean over to the newsstand. “Remember all the books in Sammy’s flat? Only a couple of expensive books, but there were Penguins scattered all over.”

“Pulp novels? You mean those horrid pot boilers with the scantily clad women all over the covers?” Her tone dripped with distaste.

“Jean McBrian, you’re such a book snob!” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Some of them are quite saucy, you know.”

Jean swatted at Millie’s arm. “I’m sure they aren’t my cup of tea.”

“They aren’t all scandalous women lusting over men with throbbing loins, Jean. Sometimes it’s two women doing the throbbing.” She gave Jean, slack-jawed and blushing, a lascivious wink before turning to the newsracks and flipping through the Penguin books. “Ah-hah!” Millie flashed a triumphant smile and held up a green and white copy of The Murder at the Vicarage. “Think about it, Jean, they’re perfect for the job. Small, portable, available at every newsstand or Woolworth’s for two shillings. It’s easy to get as many copies as you need and no one thinks twice about seeing one. We didn’t.”

Jean pulled her wallet from her handbag. “Get two.”

Even the short trip on the bus had given Jean’s overworked leg time to stiffen up. By the time they got to the stop nearest the flat, Jean could barely get off the bus, never mind carrying any of the groceries. Jean was leaning heavily on Millie before they’d even reached the flat.

Finally getting the key in the door, Millie swung it open then immediately jerked it closed again. She shoved Jean sideways, away from the doorway, flattening her against the wall with her body.

“What are—”

Millie clamped a hand over Jean’s mouth and leaned in. “Someone’s been in the flat,” she whispered. She felt Jean stiffen along the length of their bodies. A brief image of what it would be like to feel that again, in quite different circumstances, flashed in her mind, but she pushed it away. She would definitely ponder it again later, though. “Stay here.” Millie patted Jean’s hip and reached for the door handle.

“I will not.” Grimacing, Jean nonetheless positioned herself beside Millie.

Knowing it wouldn’t help to argue, Millie gave in – to a point. She pushed herself between Jean and the door. “At least stay behind me.” Jean didn’t say anything, but Millie took her aggrieved sigh as at least a tacit agreement to do as she’d asked. Slowly, she twisted the knob, flinching at how loud the rattle of the lockworks sounded in the hallway. Easing the door open, Millie took a good look at the damage.

The intruders hadn’t caused anywhere near the mayhem they’d seen at Samuel’s, but things were obviously out of sorts. Millie took two steps forward before Jean’s hand tugged at the back of her coat.

“Wait,” she eased herself in front of Millie, pulling her back by the wrist. “They might still be here. Or be watching.” Jean flipped her new cane around, ready to swing at a second’s notice.

“For god’s sake, Jean, you take down one poor bloke in an alley and suddenly you’re Sir Jack Hobbs?” She freed her wrist and slipped into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later to hand Jean her butcher’s knife.

“Where’s your gun?”

“Right here.” Millie pulled it out of her purse. “I decided to carry it after our little run-in with Rupert.” She moved further into the living room. The sofa cushions stuck out at odd angles and papers littered the floor beneath Jean’s secretary desk. “It’s not as bad as Samuel’s. There’s that at least.” Jean’s records lay scattered in front of the fireplace and the books on her shelves had been tossed to the floor, though nothing seemed to be damaged. “Stay here.”

Gripping the handle of her revolver, Millie crept down the hallway. The door to the bedroom stood ajar. Millie felt a warm presence behind her. “What part of stay here do you not understand?”

“I understood just fine,” Jean growled from behind her. “I chose to disregard it.”

Millie risked a look back, mugging at Jean with exasperated fondness. “Terror.”

“To thine own self be true, dearie.” The bedroom was clear, though also in disarray. Jean’s clothes had been tossed on the bed; the drawers emptied. Once she’d checked the bathroom, Millie relaxed and tucked her gun back into her purse. “Whoever did this, they’ve gone now.” Millie put the butcher’s knife back in the kitchen, giving her heartrate time to drop back to normal. Opening Jean’s icebox, Millie shoved the milk bottle and other items to the side so she could pull out a foil-covered casserole dish. She lifted corner of the foil and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw all of their materials. She carried it into the sitting room. “You were right, they – Jean!” Jean was hunched over the arm of the sofa, clutching her left leg, her new cane on the floor.

“I’m all right,” Jean gritted out through clenched teeth. “It’s just a spasm.”

“Just a spasm… bloody hell, Jean.” She hurriedly straightened the cushions before pulling one of Jean’s arms across her shoulders. “Lean on me… as much as you need to…” Her heart ached when Jean cried out in pain. “All right, you’re there… Just drop.”

Jean collapsed onto the sofa, gasping. “I don’t… want to hear… any variation of ‘overdid it.’”

“Not a word.” Kneeling on the floor in front of her, Millie pushed Jean’s skirt up high enough to reveal her thigh. She could actually see the quivering knot of muscle under her skin. She’d no sooner touched it than Jean cried out again. “Easy… steady on, darling, I won’t hurt you. Much.” She pressed against Jean’s leg with the palm of her hand, using gentle pressure to begin with and slowly increasing it. Jean writhed on the sofa, her fingers digging into the cushions, moaning with each movement of Millie’s hand. In any other circumstances the whole thing would be quite erotic. Bit by bit, Millie managed to ease the spasm.

As her muscles loosened, Jean started to relax. “Leave it a minute,” she sighed.

“What’s the matter? Isn’t this what you had in mind when you pictured yourself moaning on the sofa with my hands up your skirt?”

Jean’s cheeks pinked but she didn’t pull away. “Reprobate.”

“That’s definitely why you love me best,” Millie said, chuckling softly. “How about a stretch?” Jean nodded and Millie carefully lifted her foot off the floor, slowly bringing Jean’s knee toward her chest. “Say when.” Jean waved at her to stop at about the halfway point. Millie slipped Jean’s shoe off and let her foot rest on her knee. Keeping Jean’s foot on her knee, Millie lightly ran her hands up Jean’s thigh, gently stretching the muscles even more.

Once the cramping had passed, Jean patted Millie’s hands. “Come up here with me – while you can still get off the floor.” Millie pulled Jean’s skirt back into place and crawled up onto the sofa beside her. Jean leaned against her shoulder once she’d settled into place. “Nothing damaged, nothing taken, but someone has definitely been in the flat.”

“How are you?”

Jean shrugged. What could she say? Angry? Invaded? Violated? Thankful they hadn’t been here? So many emotions were fighting inside her she wound up feeling nothing much at all. Millie freed her arm and pulled Jean into a hug.

“Well, I’m bloody pissed off enough for the both of us. They were in our home, Jean.” She chuckled at her own presumption. “Your home.”

Jean rested a hand on Millie’s leg. “Ours at the moment.”

“I’m also thanking my lucky stars that you weren’t here alone – not that you can’t take care of yourself. You do swing a pretty mean stick.”

“Same here. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

Mille held her closer and kissed the top of her head. At some point, she would have to broach the subject of her growing feelings for Jean. Except, they weren’t growing, she realized. The seed of affection that had germinated all those years ago at Bletchley had matured into a towering tree of love. She loved Jean. It didn’t take much examination to know that. She just needed to work up the bottle to tell her. Maybe then she might get to kiss more than the top of Jean’s head. Cool fingers laced with hers. Or maybe she wouldn’t have to tell Jean. “Brilliant move, hiding it all in the icebox.”

“Not so much. They ignored Sammy’s icebox.”

“The question is, were they following us or following Rupert?” Millie dropped Jean’s hand and pulled the cello-wrapped biscuits from her pocket. “Why don’t you get started on this. I’m going to do a bit of laundry.” Jean frowned. “Whoever was here had their hands all over my knickers – and yours. They’re all getting laundered before either one of us wears them again. I’ll bring you the new cipher, too.”

Jean sat up, gingerly bending and straightening her leg. “Good idea.” She pulled out her copy of The Murder at the Vicarage and got to work.

“It’s another date and location.” Jean showed Millie the deciphered information. “The next business to be vandalized?”

“I suppose it could be…” Millie mulled it over. “It doesn’t really make much sense though, does it? Why add another layer of encryption to that? The others were all just basic ciphers. No… I think this is something bigger.”

“We need to find out what’s at this address.” Jean waved the paper again. She started to get up, but Millie stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re in no shape to go traipsing anywhere else today. Whatever that is, it doesn’t happen for two more days. We’ll go tomorrow.”

Jean wanted to argue, her pride refusing to allow her to give in too easily. Her leg, however, had other ideas. Even now her muscles teetered on the edge of mutiny. “You’re right, much as I hate to admit it.”

Millie could see Jean’s mood spiraling downward. “Why don’t we relax tonight? I’ll run you a hot bath, and after we can have some of that pork pie you bought today.” Millie stopped as something occurred to her. “You don’t reckon any of the things we bought today were tampered with, do you?”

“Not at all, that’s why I only chose things that were on display out front. Besides, they’d have no special reason to know us and certainly no reason to poison their customers. I’m positive they cooked that batch of biscuits up especially for Sammy.” She plucked the cello-wrapped packages off the table. “Maybe bin the biscuits anyway, though.”

“I’m sure you’re right…” She didn’t share Jean’s certainty, but she trusted her judgment. “I’ll call Lucy. Maybe she can tell us what’s at that address and save us from having to go to the library beforehand.”

Millie tapped on the door to the bath before opening it a crack. “Jean?”

Jean slid deeper into the water. Millie had seen her in the bath – in it, out of it, half-way, on the toilet… Millie had seen her at every level of dress and undress. Jean knew there was nothing left to see. It didn’t stop the fluttering in her stomach at the idea of Millie seeing her again, though. “Come on in. Were you able to reach Lucy?”

Dropping gracelessly onto her stool, Millie held out her glass to Jean. “I did. The address is for Guardian Group Accidental.” She lit a cigarette and propped her elbows on her knees.

Jean accepted Millie’s offer of a drink. She needed it after Millie’s loose-limbed flop. For all the graces bestowed by Millie’s finishing school upbringing, she was never more attractive than when she dropped them all and simply… moved. At least that’s what Jean thought, and Jean had given it an awful lot of thought.

Still. Now wasn’t exactly the time. “An insurance company?” Jean took another nip of Millie’s gin and tonic, subtly turning the glass so her lips would line up with the faint red smudge of Millie’s lipstick. When she handed the glass back, Jean plucked the cigarette from Millie’s fingers before sinking back into the tub and taking a drag. _To steady my nerves_ , she thought. Jean blew a thin stream of smoke into the air before handing the cigarette back.

“Um… uh…” Millie took the cigarette with shaking fingers, blinking in disbelief. “Mm-hmm, I mean… yes.” She gulped down half her drink. _To steady my nerves_ , she thought. “And… uh… Lucy remembered that Mrs. Gould had complained that their insurance company was balking at paying the benefits. When I spoke to Jacob Feldman, he said the same thing.” Millie shifted on her stool, reaching up to pull Jean’s towel from its hook. By the time she draped it across her lap, her mind seemed to be back under control. “And you’ll never guess which company insured them.”

“Guardian Group Accidental.” Jean wrung the water out of her hair. “It’s not a bad plan, really. Sell some insurance and get all the information you need about a business – who owns it, the finances, maintenance records.” She pulled the stopper on the tub. “Give me a boost.” Millie set her glass on the floor beneath her stool before she stepped behind Jean. Once she stood up, Millie wrapped Jean in her towel and steadied her as she climbed out of the bath. It was a well-choreographed dance at this point.

“It’s devious, I’ll give them that. Stage an accident that damages the business and then refuse to pay. These are all small, family-owned locals; they’ll never recover if the insurance doesn’t pay. Meanwhile, Peggy Gould’s husband is working himself to the bone to try and get their business up and running again.” Millie turned to pick up her glass while Jean toweled off. “I’ll meet you back on the sofa, darling. Take your time.”

Sooner than Millie expected, the tap of Jean’s cane announced her return to the sitting room. Millie switched her cigarette to her other hand and patted the cushion next to her. Once Jean sat down, Millie tried to hand her a fresh drink. Her eyebrows flew into her hairline when Jean reached across her and lifted Millie’s half-drunk glass off the side table, draining it at one go.

Plucking the fresh glass from Millie’s still frozen-in-shock hand, Jean leaned back, positioning herself so that their shoulders were pressed firmly together. “So, what do we do with the information now? Unless they’ve autopsied Bernard and found cyanide… we don’t have any facts, just theories.”

Millie pulled her feet up onto the sofa, resting her knees against Jean’s good leg. “And we know how receptive the police are to theories. If we don’t hand them everything all tied up with a bow on top like it’s Christmas, they won’t do a bloody thing.”

Jean grunted her agreement. “I’m afraid it will be like Crowley all over again, and I don’t mean the risk. I don’t care what anyone says about us being amateurs or in over our heads – being ignored is why Susan nearly died.” She swallowed the last of her gin, the alcohol loosening her tongue and her temper. “They couldn’t see the pattern even though we’d painted it out for them in bloody red letters. And god forbid a mere… inferior… woman spell it out to them. That’s what put Susan in that hole with that psychopath.”

Millie wished she could muster some argument to counter Jean’s. She couldn’t. “It’s on us again, isn’t it?” She pulled the cup out of Jean’s hands and laced their fingers together. “What shall we do then?”

“We need to get in that building.” Jean leaned heavily against Millie’s shoulder. The day and the gin were taking their toll. “Tomorrow night.”

“The big meeting is night after.”

“Exactly. We need to see if there’s anything there we can take to the police.” A massive yawn clawed its way out of her. “We need a plan…”

“We need to get you to bed, darling. Clear heads and all.” She yawned herself. They’d also need to call Lucy. Someone ought to know what they were up to. Holding on to Jean’s hand, she climbed to her feet. “Come on you…” She tugged Jean up as well.

“Hand me my stick,” Jean said, swaying dangerously. “I do my best plotting in bed.”

By the time teeth had been brushed and covers had been turned down, Jean’s head had cleared considerably. That’s why Millie was so surprised when Jean curled against her and wrapped an arm around Millie’s waist. “Sooner or later, you’ll roll over here with me or I’ll roll over there with you. Why wait until the middle of the night?” She kissed Millie’s shoulder and sighed. She just managed to mumble “Don’t overthink it” before she fell asleep.

Relaxing into Jean, Millie soon joined her.


	10. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Millie and Jean are finally closing in on Bernard's killers. Or is it the other way around? Facing the danger together, they risk it all for justice. But have they finally pushed their luck too far?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming along on this journey. I hope you enjoyed it. I can't wait for Millie and Jean's next adventure.
> 
> I owe Sparky so much for the generous gifts of her time and talent. She's an indispensable part of this whole process. Any mistakes still present are solely my own.

* * *

“Shift left a bit; you’re blocking the light.” Millie kept working at the lock, trying to feel for the pins again, the way Lucy had told her before. She pulled the hairpin out and tried again but she just couldn’t quite feel it. She could feel the burning in her thighs from squatting in front of the door, though.

Jean glanced behind them, reassuring herself that the street was still empty. “I’m trying to block any unwanted witnesses.” Her fingers curled and uncurled around the torch in her pocket. “Are you sure—”

“No. May as well shine a spotlight on us.” She used her teeth to pull the ends of the pin further apart and tried again. Above her, she could hear Jean’s impatience growing with every shift of weight and breathing. “Almost… there…” Millie grunted in satisfaction when the tumblers finally gave way. “We’re in.”

Inside, they pressed themselves against the door and listened for any sign they weren’t alone. The darkness weighed heavily inside the building.

Satisfied they were alone, Jean huffed and stepped away from the door. “Are we going to prop up the wall all night or do what we came to do?” Pulling the torch from her pocket, she tapped it against what she hoped was Millie’s stomach. “Let’s be quick about it.”

Millie flicked on the torch, covering the glass with her fingers, and dimming the light. Eerie shadows stretched across the walls. “Stick together or split up?”

“Together,” Jean said, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Let’s try there first.” She tugged Millie towards an open door on the left. They entered a kitchenette of sorts, with a table, a sink, an ice box. A coffee maker and tea service crowded the truncated counters. “Not likely to be anything in here.” Jean searched the cupboards anyway.

Millie split her attention between Jean and the hallway. “Let’s try the offices.” The first office held nothing of importance, only insurance policies filed away and a precisely organized desk.

“That in itself is suspicious, don’t you think?” Jean asked. “No one who really works has a desk that tidy.” Her own office in the library was a maze of haphazard stacks and piles – all organized to her own theme, mind you, but indecipherable to most others.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, chuckling softly. The next door opened to a cramped loo; they skipped it and moved down the hallway to the next door. Millie’s foot slipped on something on the floor. She shined the light on the floor. Blood. “Wait!” she hissed, just as Jean reached for the handle. “Don’t open that door!”

The warning came too late. As soon as Jean twisted the knob, a body tumbled out of the broom cupboard, knocking Jean back before dropping to the marble. The head met the floor with the sickening thunk of an overripe melon. Jean muffled a scream. Millie leapt backwards, slipping again, and sending the torch clattering down the hallway and plunging them into darkness.

“Are you all right?” Jean’s voice sounded farther away than Millie thought it should.

Millie groped blindly along the floorboards, praying she found the torch before her hand landed in the slick wetness of the blood. It did. She flicked the switch on and off, but nothing happened. Shaking it, the torch eventually flickered on, the light pale and unsteady. She pointed it at Jean first, shaking it again when the light wavered. “I’m fine. Are you?” Jean nodded and stepped closer.

“Who…”

Turning the wan light to the body, they both gasped when they saw the face.

Jean shook her head in despair. “Rupert… you bloody fool.” Dangerous, she’d said, and now he’d gone and proven her right. “Stupid… reckless fool.” Jean stepped closer. “Check his pockets; see if he has any sort of notes or… a scrap of code or something.”

Blanching, Millie did as Jean asked but found nothing useful. “Should we try to stuff him back inside?”

“I can’t see the point.” She squinted into the darkness, her eyes seeing shadows within the shadows. “We need to be careful, though. No doubt someone will be back to take care of the body.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“And pick up a charge of breaking and entering? Or worse? Not bloody likely.” Jean tapped the floor with her cane. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do for him now. Let’s finish going through the other office. I refuse to leave here empty-handed.” Millie started to argue, but Jean cut her off. “When we’re done, we can ring Lucy and she can call that Ben fellow.”

The torch kept flickering in the darkness. Millie couldn’t tell if it was the batteries, the connection, or the bulb but it gave her the jitters. She wished she could just turn on the lights. Even in the limited light, they could see the offices were generic offices – styled in modern furnishings of clean lines and neutral colors. Millie wrinkled her nose. It was decidedly un-British. She checked the filing cabinet in this office but found nothing out of the ordinary.

“Any luck?” Jean asked from her position in the doorway. “There must be something. It took three different codes to get this location. You don’t do that for nothing.”

Millie shoved the drawer closed. “Nothing yet. I saw another door at the end of the hallway.” She joined Jean. “Come on.” She wanted out of this building and away from Rupert’s body. More importantly, she wanted Jean away.

Millie flashed her thready torch around the office one last time before pointing it down the hallway. “Basement, maybe? This building is pre-war. I’ll wager there’s a bomb shelter.” Millie glanced behind them one more time as she reached for the knob. “Oh-ho!” She rattled the handle. “Now every office was as open as you please, but the shabby little door in the back is locked? Feels dodgy to me.” She pulled Jean’s hairpins out of her pocket, but before she could start picking the lock, Jean nudged her out of the way.

“Hold up,” Jean said, running her fingers along the top of the doorframe. “There we go…” Grinning smugly, she held out a key. “Like Alice said, all those years ago. People are people; we all take shortcuts.” She unlocked the door and slowly made her way down the stairs. Millie followed, closing the door behind them.

“God almighty,” Millie whispered, as the yellow light of the torch illuminated an enormous Nazi flag covering the back wall.

“God’s nowhere to be found in this room.” With a white-knuckled grip on her stick, Jean made her way down the stairs. “I don’t see any reason to keep the lights off; you can be sure there’s no windows in this basement.”

Millie didn’t need to be told twice. She reached up until she caught the string dangling from a bare bulb overhead. It didn’t illuminate much better than the flashlight, but it was enough to reveal the basement. Jean spotted a floor lamp and hurried to turn it on too.

In addition to the flag on the wall, a row of pole-mounted flags stood sentinel over a raised dais in the middle of the room. Millie spotted another Nazi flag, the red and gold flag of Hitler’s personal standard, the black flag of the SS with its twin lightning bolts, and a few more.

Jean studied the row with a mixture of disgust and consternation. “I remember most of them. What’s that green one?”

“The _Ordnungspolizei_ , the Nazi’s bloody police.” No matter where Millie looked, she saw things that turned her stomach, but nothing sickened her more than the sight of more than a dozen chairs facing the dais. “There can’t be so many… in London?”

“You know how they scattered after the war.”

“Like rats leaving a sinking ship, filthy beggars.” Millie forced her focus back to the here and now. “Look for anything that might be useful or tell us who these bastards are. I want to get the hell out of here.”

“Agreed.” Jean continued her search of the basement. A crate caught her eye. She hobbled to it and raised the top. “Millie!” She stared down at the contents of the crate: mines. At least a dozen landmines were haphazardly stacked in the crate, cushioned with straw.

“Wha—bloody hell, Jean… are those what I think they are?”

“Bouncing Bettys. Anti-personnel mines.” Jean swore the temperature dropped ten degrees.

“What would they do with these? You can’t exactly lay a field of land mines in the middle of Trafalgar Square. There’s too much paving.”

Jean carefully pushed aside some of the straw, jumping a bit at Millie’s sudden gasp. “Keep your knickers dry, they’ve got the pins in.” She moved another handful of straw and revealed coiled spools of wire. “They’re going to use tripwires.”

“Jean, look.” Millie pointed her torch at the lid to the crate. A map of greater London had been tacked to the underside. Several locations had been marked in red ink. Millie leaned closer. “Look,” she tapped the map near the location of the library. “That’s the Empire theatre, where they had the fire.” She slid a painted nail to another location. “And there’s the tailor shop.” Her finger moved further across the map. “And that’s a synagogue.”

Tapping the map herself, Jean added “That’s a school. There haven’t been any major incidents at synagogues, only some broken windows. There’s been nothing at a school at all.”

“No. Not yet.” She turned to Jean. “But there will be.”

“Not if we can help it.” Jean pulled the lid back onto the crate. “We need to get to the police.”

“Not without proof.” Millie circled the room. “Otherwise, we’re just two women who broke into an insurer’s offices.” She stepped onto the dais, checking the podium to see if it held anything important. An ornate leather ledger book had been perfectly centered on the single shelf. “Jean – come take a look at this.” Millie set it on the podium and waited for Jean to join her before she opened it.

The leather, dyed a deep, velvety black, had been embossed with a swastika centered in a circle in the middle. Millie opened the cover. Nothing was printed on the end pages, though someone had sketched an amateurish portrait of Hitler inside the front cover. She flipped a page. Someone had glued a neatly written document over the ledger lines. Jean placed a hand over hers, keeping Millie from turning the page.

“It’s a manifesto of sorts…” She realized her hand still covered Millie’s. She moved it away. “A promise to carry on the noble work of the Reich. Nauseating rubbish.”

Millie turned the page again to reveal a list of names and signatures. There were twenty. The date at the top of the page was almost three years ago. “This is it. Their insurance policy. No one is allowed to stay for the meeting without signing their name to the book.” She flipped to the last page and ran her fingertip down the list, stopping when she landed on Samuel’s signature. “He did it. He managed to infiltrate the group before they sussed him out.”

“Or they let him,” Jean added grimly. “Hold your friends close and your enemies closer.” She pointed at the ledger. “Bring that; we have to hope it’s enough.”

Millie tucked it under her arm and hurried off the dais, holding out a hand for Jean before she’d even realized she’d done so. When Jean took it without any hesitation, the warmth that spread through her chest chased away the chill caused by all the hate in this room. She kept Jean’s hand in hers, using the arduous trek up the staircase as an excuse. Not that Jean gave Millie any indication that she needed an excuse to hold her hand. She paused once they reached the top landing.

“I’ll turn the lights off and we can wait for our eyes to adjust to the dark before we open the door.” Millie’s voice had dropped to a husky whisper. “We don’t want to stumble upon whoever comes to collect Rupert. Squeeze my hand when you’re ready for me to open the door.” She dropped Jean’s hand long enough to pull the string and plunged them into darkness. She fumbled in the dark until she found Jean’s hand again, blinking her eyes in a vain attempt to get them to adjust faster. Millie could feel Jean’s thumb brushing slowly across her knuckles. Neither of them said anything, though Millie couldn’t explain why. She listened to the wind outside and the sound of Jean’s breathing beside her. Jean squeezed her hand.

“All right,” Millie said, “follow me.”

Millie eased the door open. The dim light of the hallway was still brighter than the blackness of the basement, but Millie flicked on the torch anyway. They’d taken about five cautious steps into the hallway when a man stepped in front of them. He slammed Millie’s head into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Off-balance, Jean tried to fight off their attacker, but only wound up on the floor. The torch flew out of Millie’s hand. This time, the filament broke completely, plunging them back into darkness. In the last flicker of light, Jean recognized the big blond man from the bakery.

Beside her, Millie groaned and tried to crawl to her feet. She’d only managed her hands and knees when rough hands grabbed the back of her coat collar. Dragged the rest of the way to her feet, she flailed against his grip, but it did no good. Shoving Jean aside, he hauled Millie back to the basement. He ripped the door open and threw Millie through it.

Jean heard a thud and clatter from the other side of the door. On her knees, she tried to swing her cane, but the narrow hallway restricted her movements. She only managed a glancing blow before he shoved her through the door, slamming it shut behind her. Jean’s momentum carried her past the tiny landing at the top of the stairs, sending her scrabbling down the staircase, hurtling towards the still form of Millie at the bottom.

Fire burned through her thigh; her cane snapped in half when it caught between the risers. Somehow, she managed to keep her feet until the last few steps. She landed hard, sprawled on her belly halfway across Millie. Millie didn’t move.

Ignoring the scrapes on her palms, Jean crawled to Millie’s head. “Millie!” Her fingers traced the curves of Millie’s face checking for injuries. A knot was forming just above her hairline. Terrified to move her, Jean prayed that she hadn’t broken anything in the fall. “Millie, love… please… wake up.” She ran her hands over Millie’s arms and legs, but she had no idea if anything was broken. “Don’t act like you can’t hear me, Camilla Harcourt. Now is no time to be stubborn.” Tears filled her eyes as her panic grew. She patted Millie’s cheeks. “Wake up, Mil.”

Millie’s eyes fluttered.

“Millie!” Careful not to move her head, Jean grabbed Millie’s hands.

Her face twisting in pain, Millie bent one leg. “Bloody hell…” Millie murmured. She pulled one hand free and rubbed her head.

Jean sobbed in relief. “Be still… you could be hurt.” Of course, Millie ignored her and tried to sit up. Jean moved behind her and tried to help. “Lean against me.” It both relieved and terrified her when Millie collapsed against her without an argument. “That’s a good girl…” Jean smoothed Millie’s hair and kissed her temple.

“Just give me a minute to get sorted.” Millie rolled her head on her shoulders, wincing at every crackle and pop of joints snapping back into place. She pretended it didn’t make her nauseous. “We’re in a spot of trouble now, aren’t we?”

Instead of answering, Jean kissed Millie’s temple one more time before forcing herself to her feet. “Maybe there’s another way out of here?”

Millie knew that they would have found a second door already, if there was one. She knew Jean knew it, too. “Maybe so.” She watched Jean limp to the stair railing. “Are you hurt?”

“No, just a bit sore. I snapped another stick, though. I liked that one, too.”

“We’ll replace it, first thing tomorrow.” They both ignored the way Millie’s voice broke on ‘tomorrow.’

Jean nodded. “First thing,” she said, forcing a sad smile. Leaning against the wall for support, she followed it around the room, praying for another way out.

Her mother would have all sorts of things to say about the unladylike groan that emerged from Millie as she climbed to her feet. Swaying heavily, she started to make her way through the room, going in the opposite direction. She stopped. “Jean? Do you smell smoke?”

Jean’s eyes searched the ceiling as she sniffed the air. A greasy, pungent smell tickled her nose. Definitely smoke. “They’ve set the building on fire. Covering their tracks.”

Millie lurched up the staircase, pounding on the door and shouting for help. No one answered. She pulled the hairpin from her pocket and tried to pick the lock, but her hands were shaking too much. Smoke began seeping in through the gaps. She gave up on the lock and turned away. Her eyes met Jean’s across the room. Jean’s eyes were angry, not frightened. Despite it all, Millie smiled to herself. _That’s my Jean_ , she thought, tears stinging her eyes. So much wasted time; it took her too long to figure things out. She watched Jean furiously pushing chairs and boxes out of her way. It wasn’t fair.

She jerked the handle again as more smoke poured into the basement. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. The heat was rising. Millie pushed thoughts of the landmines out of her head. A loud clatter sent her back down the stairs. Jean had pushed over the row of flags. She was using one as a makeshift staff. Millie eyed the metal finial at the top. Maybe… “Jean! Bring me one of those flagpoles!” She clambered partway down the stairs and snatched the stick from Jean’s hand. Letting her anger drive her, Millie attacked the door, hoping to break through the panel or break the lock itself.

The effort had her sweating at once – and choking and sputtering in the smoke. After a few moments, she had to move back down the stairs to catch her breath. Bent at the waist, with her hands on her knees, she was coughing so hard she could only nod when Jean patted her on the back and asked if she was all right. Once she could breathe again, Millie pulled the scarf from her head and fastened it over her mouth and nose before mounting the stairs again.

“Wait!” Jean grabbed her by the elbow. “Let me get you something to stuff under the door.” The heat grew more intense – even Jean was sweating through her clothes. She lurched across the room and ripped the giant Nazi flag off the back wall. “Millie! Look!” She pointed at the wall behind the flag.

There, in the middle of the wall: a boarded-up coal chute.

“Jean, you bloody, brilliant woman!” Millie grabbed her flagpole and went about trying to break through the wood. She heard Jean rattling with something behind her but didn’t stop hacking at the panel.

“Here, try to pry it off.” Jean pressed the hilt of a ceremonial sword into her hand.

Millie turned her nose up at the Nazi insignia on the hilt but took it anyway. She wedged the tip under the edge of the panel and pulled. The board moved a fraction before the tip of the sword snapped off, sending Millie flying backwards. She landed on her arse, hard.

Jean was by her side at once. “Let me take a turn; you catch your breath.” She took the sword and went to work. After a moment, Millie took up her place beside her, using the tip of the finial to pry at the loosened board. They both stopped at the sound of something collapsing overhead. “We need to hurry.” They redoubled their efforts. The sword bent. “Turn your head in case it breaks again,” Jean ordered. With the screech of sliding nails, the entire panel popped free. A gust of fresh air rushed over them. Millie ripped her mask off and breathed it in. The sound of sirens approaching cut through the noise of the fire.

“You have to go,” they said at the same time.

Jean immediately got that stubborn set to her jaw. “Please. Just go. I’ll be right behind you.” She shot a worried look at the crate of mines.

The fire roared louder. Millie had to shout to be heard. “You can’t climb out on your own, Jean, not with that leg of yours. I’ll give you a boost and then I’ll be right behind you, quick as a lamb’s tail.” Jean started to argue, but Millie cut her off. “We’ll both be out faster if you’ll just go!” The entire building groaned and suddenly seemed to list. Jean relented.

The opening was about six feet off the floor. Millie grabbed one of the chairs and positioned it under the chute. She motioned for Jean to climb up.

“And you swear you’re right behind me?” Jean clutched Millie’s arm hard enough to bruise. When Millie nodded, she climbed onto the chair.

“Wait!” Millie pulled her back. “Just in case, I’m not going to miss my chance to do this.” She grabbed Jean by the lapels and pulled her lower. Jean realized what was happening and leaned in the rest of the way. The kiss was hard, deep and everything that Millie imagined it would be. A sharp crack split the air as the basement door buckled with the heat. Jean pulled away. “Go… Go! I’m right behind you.” Millie pushed her towards the opening. “I love you!”

Before Jean could turn and help her out the window, before she could even tell Millie that she loved her too, a support beam crashed into the wall beside Millie, knocking her aside. Jean scrambled back to the window so she could pull Millie out onto the street.

Millie was gone.

“Millie! MILLIE!” Jean’s heart collapsed in upon itself. Rough hands dragged her away from the building. Struggling to break loose, Jean stared into the faceless mask of a firefighter. “My friend!” She dug her heels into the pavement. “My friend is trapped inside… Help her!” Two policemen hurried over and took her from the fireman. They dragged her out of the alleyway. “She’s in there… there are mines…”

That froze the man in his tracks. “Mines? Lady, there’s no mines in London.”

“I’m telling you, there is a box of Bouncing Bettys in a crate in the corner of that basement. Get my friend out of there. And clear the block.” Jean watched the young man’s eyes shift from skeptical to doubtful to wary. He scanned the street; people crowded into the street to watch the building burn. “People are going to die.” She jerked her arm free and lurched back into the alley. She’d only made it a dozen steps before the officers were dragging her away again.

A deep thump in her chest knocked her heart out of rhythm. Her ears popped. The sidewalk… rolled towards her as the back corner of the building crumbled. Jean screamed until her throat bled.

* * *

Her throat burned; her eyes burned. Shaking fingers fluttered over her face and pulled a moist flannel away from her eyes. Blinking under the glare of the incandescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling, Millie took a slow, careful breath. She wrinkled her nose against the smell of smoke and antiseptic. Warmth enveloped her hand; she turned towards it.

Jean stared back at her, red-eyed and wild-haired. Soot still smudged her face. It was Jean that still smelled of smoke. The snowy white bandages covering Jean’s hands looked ridiculously out of place.

“We made it… Are you?” Millie’s smoke-roughened voice sounded hoarser than usual. It hurt when she spoke.

“I’m fine, better than fine now that you’re awake.” Jean sounded like she’d swallowed ground glass. “You gave me a bit of a fright.” She started to kiss Millie’s hand, but pressed her forehead against Millie’s knuckles instead. “I almost lost you. The mines… they knocked down half the building.” Jean stared at the far wall. “So much smoke… bricks tumbling to the ground… shattered glass falling like rain. I just knew you were dead.”

“I promised you that I would be right behind you. I meant it.”

“I know, but… When the fireman carried you out of the smoke, you were so limp. All I could think about was that at least I’d have a body to bury. A grave to visit. Then he put an oxygen mask over your face.” Fresh tears tracked through the soot on her cheeks. “They don’t put oxygen on a corpse.”

Millie freed her hand and cupped Jean’s face, wiping the tears away with her thumb. “Jean…”

Jean cut her off with a firm shake of her head. “It’s all right. You don’t have to… I know things were intense.” Jean closed her eyes and breathed a deep, shaky breath. Even though they’d been getting closer, that didn’t mean that what happened in the basement had been anything more than a desperate response to panic and fear. “And I understand if things got out of hand in the basement… between us.”

Millie realized that Jean was giving her an out. She knew, from the marrow of her bones, that she didn’t want one. What she didn’t know was whether or not Jean did. She turned her hand and brushed the backs of her fingers against Jean’s cheek. “I meant what I said, darling. I love you. Though I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way.”

Jean sagged in relief. “I do. I just didn’t get a chance to say so.” She leaned forward and kissed Millie, heedless of her chapped lips or the pressure it put on her leg. Their lips met gently at first, lightly brushing together, but building. Millie sank her fingers into Jean’s hair, pulling her closer. “I love you too.”

“She’s in bed three,” Lucy said as they stepped onto the ward. Mostly empty, the only other occupied bed they could see held an old man who was clearly unconscious. Lucy pointed at a bed with the curtains closed. “That must be Millie.”

Thanks to the closed curtains, neither of them noticed what Millie and Jean were doing until it was almost too late. Lucy spotted them first through a crack in the curtains. She spun around, wide eyes staring at Susan over the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. Grabbing Susan’s shoulder, she turned her away from the curtains and whispered, “Millie’s awake.” Lucy shushed Susan’s protests and tried to steer her back into the corridor.

“What on earth…” Susan broke away, dodging Lucy’s attempt to catch her. She peeped through the curtains, watching the occupants with her hands on her hips for several seconds before turning back to Lucy. “Took them long enough,” she grinned. “Maybe a spot of tea before our visit?”

Lucy nodded in relief. “That seems a good idea.”

As they turned to leave, Jean’s voice called out from behind the curtain. “You aren’t as quiet as you think, dearies.” The rings screeched as the curtain opened, revealing a smiling – and decidedly mussed – Jean. She turned to Lucy and lifted an eyebrow. “For such a tiny thing, you make a lot of noise when you walk.” She stepped aside. “Get in here, you lot.”

“It’s all right,” Millie rasped. “Show’s over.” She shifted over a bit and patted the mattress beside her.

Jean took the seat on the bed next to Millie, smoothing her hair before threading their hands together. “What’s the word from Scotland Yard?”

Lucy stared at the two of them. Did they expect her to pretend she hadn’t just seen… what she’d just seen? She decided that they did. She also decided she would play along – for now. “Thanks to your ledger, they know who they’re looking for, at least.” Her lips quirked into a smug smile. “I managed to read through it all before Ben logged it into evidence.”

“You saved it,” Jean said, squeezing Millie’s hand. “I can’t believe you managed it.” The color drained from her face. “That’s what you went back for. You could have died.”

“Tucked it in me knickers,” Millie snickered, wheezing. “And I didn’t.” She brought their joined hands to her lips and kissed Jean’s bandaged knuckles. “We’re both fine.”

Lucy filled them in on all that had happened in the last few hours. Anders was in custody. He and the beefy blond, a Karl Mueller, had been apprehended boarding a train to Manchester. Once the police began questioning more people listed in the ledger, the whole code of secrecy had collapsed like a house of cards. Scotland Yard had charged him with the murders of Samuel and Rupert plus the attempted murders of Jean and Millie. “They’re still trying to sort out what all to charge them with when it comes to all the other crimes. Anders isn’t saying much, but his accomplice is ratting out the others as fast as he can. Apparently, they left Mueller hanging out to dry on Samuel’s murder. Ernst Weber is still at large.”

“Anders is Ernst Weber,” Jean said. “At least he was when he was a guard at Sachsenhausen.” Jean took a deep breath. “I need to phone Bernard’s mother. She deserves to hear the truth about what happened to her son.”

“And your mother?” Millie asked gently. Jean sighed in resignation. “We’ll sort it, darling. Don’t worry.”

No one said anything. An awkward silence fell over them.

“Um… Alice is going to be released day after tomorrow,” Lucy said, more to break the silence than anything else. “We were all going together to meet her when she gets out.”

“I’ll be there,” Millie said, clearing her throat. Susan handed her a glass of water. The cool liquid felt like heaven against her burning throat.

“Good.” Susan took the glass once Millie had finished with it. “Now I think we should let you two… ah… get back to it. Don’t you think, Lucy?” She stood and smoothed her skirt.

Lucy agreed, blushing. “Call when you get home, all right?”

Once they’d gone, Jean closed the curtains again. Millie held out a hand to Jean, tugging her back to the bed. “You heard what Susan said. We need to ‘get back to it.’” She laced their fingers together, careful of the bandages.

“And this is what she meant, you think?” Jean settled in beside her.

Millie smiled and traced the contours of Jean’s face with her fingertips. “I don’t give a damn what Susan meant. It’s what I mean.” She kissed Jean again. And again. And again.

Epilogue:

Jean stayed close the entire trip home, but Millie didn’t care. She didn’t care that they were both still in their ash and dirt covered clothes, soot still staining Jean’s face. She didn’t care that it would take their poor cabbie days to fully air out the smoky smell they would leave in his car.

However, she cared very much about Jean’s fingers gripping her own and the warm weight of her as she leaned against Millie’s shoulder. The only thing keeping her from pulling Jean into her lap and kissing her senseless were the driver’s eyes that kept meeting hers in the mirror. Last night had been too close a call. They could have died. They should have died.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said softly. “I was horrid to you when I came home. Beastly. Raging at you for hovering when you only wanted to be close. When you were frightened because I… because I nearly died. I didn’t understand. I do now.” She squeezed Millie’s hand harder.

Millie stretched her neck just enough to rest her cheek against Jean’s head. The car turned the corner onto Jean’s street. “Is that your way of telling me that you’re going to hover? You won’t hear me complaining about having you near. I almost lost you again. After all we’ve been through… to finally be where we are now…” She glanced at the driver. What she needed to say would have to wait.

The car pulled up in front of Jean’s flat. Jean paid the fare and tipped the driver handsomely, apologizing for the smell.

Millie stopped just inside the door, stripping out of her coat and holding a hand out to Jean. “Give me your coat. I’ll put them on the terrace until we can have them laundered.”

Shrugging out of her coat, Jean started to hand it over but dropped it when her hands began to shake. Millie dropped her own coat before folding Jean in her arms. “It’s all right, darling. We’re safe.” Jean shuddered in her arms, her breathing ragged. “I know, love…” Millie held her, whispering words of comfort until Jean steadied. She tilted Jean’s face up and brushed a tear away with her thumb. “I think a bath would be just the ticket. Would you like that?” Jean nodded. “Good. It’ll make the rest of the evening that much better.” She leaned down and brushed her lips against Jean’s, still thrilling that she could.

Jean’s lips moved against hers, gently deepening the kiss. Her hands dropped to Millie’s waist, crushing the fabric of her blouse between her fingers. The only noises were the sounds of their breathing and Millie’s quiet moans.

Finally, Millie broke away. “Baths first,” she gasped. “This later.” She kissed Jean once more before heading down the hallway. “Come on then, I’ll get the water started.”

Suddenly alone, Jean stood, panting in the sitting room. She grinned. Later. The idea of later both thrilled and terrified her. Jean used her cane to push Millie’s coat next to hers; the movement sent the smell of smoke wafting up to her. She scooped up the coats and dumped them onto the terrace before hurrying to the bath.

“There you are,” Millie said, adding some salts to the water. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She took Jean’s bandaged hands in hers. “I’ll help you get these off.” She slowly unwrapped the gauze. Jean’s hands were a mishmash of scrapes, cuts and blisters. “Jean…” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nonsense. I made it out of this adventure in better shape than the last.” She pulled her hands free, wincing as she tried to undo the buttons of her blouse.

“Let me.” Millie went to work on the buttons, her fingers almost shaking too much to manage. She’d helped Jean in the bath a dozen times, but this time felt different. They were different now. She finished with the blouse and pushed it off her shoulders. Moving behind Jean, she pulled the blouse free from Jean’s skirt and pressed a kiss against the dimple just above her shoulder blade. Jean shivered. Millie undid the button on her skirt, letting it drop to the floor before she unfastened the hooks of Jean’s brassiere. “You’re stunning, you know. I’m so glad I can say that now.”

“Flatterer.” The blush of crimson rising from Jean’s chest belied her bluster. “Now help me into the tub before you fall down. Don’t think I can’t tell your head still aches.”

“You’ve caught me there.” She steadied Jean as she climbed in the tub, reminding herself that they’d done this many times before. “I can live with the headache. It’s the ringing in my ears that’s about to drive me mad.”

Jean sank into the water with a grateful sigh. “We’ll see if we can’t take your mind off it here in a bit.”

“I’m counting on it.” Millie kissed the top of Jean’s head, wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell of smoke and dried sweat. “Dunk for me, darling, so we can wash that hair of yours.”

Feeling like a new woman, Millie loosely tied her robe closed and headed for the bedroom, tossing her towel over her shoulder. Peeking through the door, she found Jean sitting on the bed, the hem of her nightdress pulled up over her knees. She was staring at the scar on her leg, frowning. When she realized Millie was watching, she pulled the hem down, embarrassed.

“You don’t have to hide that from me, you know,” Millie said, sauntering over. She draped her towel over the headboard and knelt in front of Jean, resting her hands on her knees. “You don’t need to be self-conscious about it, either.”

“It’s not exactly attractive.”

Millie pushed the hem of Jean’s nightdress up past her knees. She turned her attention to Jean’s injury, tracing the edges with the tip of her finger. “On the contrary, I think it’s beautiful.” She leaned forward, tenderly kissing the scar. “If I could go back and change things, I would. I wish you’d never been shot.” She kept her eyes on Jean’s. “But I can’t help but wonder, where would we be if it hadn’t happened? Would we have found each other?”

“We did find each other, years ago.” Jean cupped Millie’s cheek. “And again last year. It may have taken a bit longer without this,” her eyes dropped to her scar, “but I have to believe that it would have happened eventually.”

“Jean McBrian, are you waxing poetic about the course of true love?” She slid her hands up Jean’s thighs, her fingers gliding over Jean’s skin. Pushing Jean’s knees apart, Millie pressed forward, her hands finding their way to Jean’s hips. “Oh my… you seem to have forgotten your knickers.”

“Didn’t forget,” Jean whispered, her voice rough and low. “I didn’t put any on… Seemed a bit disingenuous.” She ran her fingers through Millie’s hair.

Growling in appreciation, Millie sank her fingertips into the flesh of Jean’s hips. “Very efficient.” She used Jean’s hips to pull her forward. Pressing their bodies together, she could feel the heat from Jean’s center through the thin fabric of her robe. “I’ve always loved your efficiency…” she began. The rest of her words were lost in their kiss.

Jean’s hands tugged at her hair before dropping to Millie’s shoulders. The silky fabric of the robe warmed under her fingers, so thin it was almost as if Millie wore nothing at all. She couldn’t touch enough of it, of Millie. Her shoulders, her arms, her breasts. Jean could feel Millie’s nipples harden through the silk. She tugged at the knot at Millie’s waist, letting the robe fall open. She stared at the wide expanse of skin revealed. “Looks like I’m not the only one to forget her kit.”

“Oh, I didn’t forget, darling.” Millie pushed herself to her feet, the open robe revealing even more. “I just wanted to make my intentions crystal clear.”

“I see,” Jean said thickly. “And just what are your intentions?”

Millie dropped the robe to the floor and leaned over Jean, forcing her back to her elbows. “Oh, I intend to spend the rest of the night shagging one Jean McBrian senseless.”

“I see…” Jean’s words caught on the lump in her throat. “I have an awful lot of sense.”

“I’m counting on it.” Millie ran a hand down Jean’s chest.

Dropping to the mattress, Jean pulled Millie down on top of her, reveling in the weight of her, the warmth. “Best get started then…”

**Author's Note:**

> These are some of sources I used for this story:
> 
> The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum www.ushmm.org  
> The Advocate, article excerpting Queer Identities and Politics in Germany: A History, 1880-1945 by Clayton J. Whisnant  
> The 1920’s Berlin Project  
> History Today  
> Back2Stonewall  
> And, of course, Wikipedia, font of all knowledge


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